


Caged Beasts and Cloudy Skies

by TeamGwenee



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Elia lives, F/M, Lyanna Lives, Minor Character Death, Not For Rhaegar Fans, Rhaegar Lives, Violence and Blood, past violence against children
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-04-21
Packaged: 2019-04-14 13:54:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 30,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14137386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeamGwenee/pseuds/TeamGwenee
Summary: A tourney is held to celebrate the anniversay of Rhaegar Targaryen's victory over those who sought to steal his throne. Brienne of Tarth wishes to enter, only to find herself caught in a web of politics and betrayal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Set in an AU where Rhaegar wins Robb's rebellion and a mix of show/book canon. This fic is is a big departure from what I usually write, so I hope you all enjoy.

She could never do what was asked of her. Never do what was wanted or needed of her.

She could never sew neatly nor dance elegantly enough. She could not grace a ballroom nor honour her parents. She couldn't even prove herself worthy of an blustering Castellan old enough to be her grandfather.

Brienne's broad shoulders strained against the sleeves of her gown, pulling and tugging at the fine fabric. Corsets were not the ideal garment to be huddling up in, the edges cut through her silk shift and sliced into her skin. Even so, she wrapped her arms round her knees and curled up as small as she could. The soles of her satin slippers; which had already been torn and tattered, were sodden through.

“I knew I'd find you here,”

Brienne looked up from her huddle on the cave floor to see her big brother standing over her. By the dim light of his taper she could make out a slight frown on his forehead. Whether he was angry at her, she could not tell. He stood silently, waiting for her to respond. Brienne clenched her jaw and closed her eyes. She took a deep breath and fixed her mind on the steady drip of water against the cold stones. She had come to this hidden cave ever since she was a little girl, hiding from her angry Septa. And now; a woman grown, she still found refuge in the dark. No mirrors, no one to stare at her. And in the hollow belly even she could feel small.

“Did you tell anyone?” she asked tentatively, wiping her nose on the hem of her gown.

“No, they're still looking,” Galladon sat awkwardly beside her, keeping an arm's length between the two, “I did tell Father I knew you were safe. He and Mother are besides themselves,”

Brienne tucked her head into her knees and sighed. “I'll come back soon,” she promised, “I just need a bit more time alone,”

“Well soon better come quickly,” Galladon warned her, “The island is tearing itself apart trying to find you,”

She twitched at her skirts, the heavy velvet damp and detailed embroidery plucked and frayed. Her mother had worked so hard on the dress, dismissing the seamstress to lovingly craft the gown herself. But not even a mother's love could make Brienne look beautiful.

“Ser Humfrey?” she swallowed, “Is he still here?”

“Left for Estermont on the first ship,” Galladon said succinctly, “Apparently when your bride to be break your ribs, it can make you feel a little unwanted,”

Brienne shuddered and groaned. “Now Father has no one to send East,”

Galladon smiled tenderly and placed a hand on her back. “He will find someone else,” he assured her.

The East coast of Tarth had been under constant barrage by pirates and bandits. Their father had planned to send an experienced military man to lead the defence and keep the peace. Ser Humfrey had seemed the perfect candidate. And with Brienne unwed, it only made sense to betroth the pair and have Brienne become the lady of the small keep in which Ser Humfrey was to reside.

Several betrothals having already fallen through, Brienne acquiesced to the wishes of her parents, even as he elder brother protested violently at seeing his little sister wed to an old man.

But it seemed that Brienne was as suited to play dutiful daughter as she was fair maiden. Ser Humfrey had arrived on Tarth, already well informed of the ugliness of the bride. He had spared her little more than a cursory glance and seemed more invested on discussing his duties with Lord Selwyn. All throughout the welcome feast Brienne sat silently beside her brother, who bristled at the very presence of the man. It had only been when he began to instruct her how she was to conduct herself as his wife that Brienne found her tongue. The challenge had been made before she had time to think.

Even in her gown, Brienne had been able to tenderise Ser Humfrey like a steak at the butchers.

“Was he very injured?” Brienne asked.

“He'll live,” Galladon scowled, “More's the pity,”

“Don't say that,” Brienne begged.

“Why? You aren't feeling guilty are you?” Galladon said incredulously.

“Maybe not about hurting Ser Humfrey,” Brienne admitted, “But..Seven Hells! What _are_ Mother and Father going to say?” she groaned.

“They have been searching for you all night,” Galladon pointed out, “At this rate they are more likely to be fuming over you running off and worrying them sick than anything to do with Wagstaff,”

Brienne eyed him up sceptically. “This is my fifth betrothal,” she said in an empty voice, “Five times they have tried to wed me off and five times they have failed. How can they not be angry with me, their useless, ugly daughter?”

“To be fair, the first betrothal falling through wasn't you fault,” Galladon said consolingly, “The Caron boy didn't call you off, he just died,”

“Praise the Gods,” Brienne muttered sarcastically, “Don't patronize me Gal, we both know I'm a failure. Can't dance like a lady, can't sing and can't sew. Can't keep a husband and give him heirs-”

“Considering the blow you landed Ser Humfrey I'd say heirs would be unlikely even if he didn't call the match off,” Galladon said lightly.

“Stop it!” Brienne snapped.

“Stop what?”

“Stop making everything into a joke!” Brienne stumbled to her feet, glowering down on her brother, “It's alright for you. You're the son, the heir. Fathers are just throwing their daughters at you,” she spat, “You will never know what it will be like to be such a disappointment. To be so utterly worthless and fail in everything you do. And what really hurts is that I can fight just like you. I can ride and hunt and fire and sail just as well as you. I can wield a sword better than you-”

“Well, I wouldn't say _better_ -”

“Shut. Up,” Brienne ground out, hands trembling in the folds of her skirts, “I know this is all a joke to you. I know you can afford to laugh, because what do you know about letting our family down? Why should you care that your sister has proved herself to be useless once more?”

“You're right. Why should I care that my little sister isn't going to spend her life chained to an old man? Why should I see that as anything but a good thing?” Galladon stood and placed his hands on Brienne's shoulder. “You know you will always have a home in Evenfall, so why do you want to shackle yourself to a husband?”

Brienne rubbed the tears on her cheek with her knuckles. “For Father,” she said simply, “And for Mother. To bring them pride and to honour our house,”

“Listen to me,” Galladon told her fiercely, “You are the bravest, strongest person I know. Don't waste yourself on a brute who will wear you down and scorn everything that makes you special. You will bring our House honour, but it will not be through marriage,”

Brienne blinked. “How then?”

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We arrive at King's Landing. The setting is show canon in that Rhaegar anulled his marriage to Elia, but to avoid confusion I kept Jon's name as Jon, just because I cannot imagine him as anything else.

“Are you sure you should be sitting out in this heat?”

Princess Elia of House Martell opened her eyes and smiled up lazily. She sat on a stone bench, hair unbound and smelling the heady perfume of the flowers. The sun streamed down, picking up bronze glints in her dark hair.

“I have survived this far,” she gently rebuked Ser Jaime Lannister, “I think I can handle some sun,”

Jaime nodded, looking concerned nonetheless. Elia reached out and patted Jaime's hand.

“The sun reminds me of Dorne,” she said simply. It was all Jaime needed.

“Where are your maids?” he asked, casting a glance around the garden.

“I dismissed them,” Elia shrugged, “I wished to be alone,”

“Do you wish me to leave?” Jaime offered.

“No, no. Please stay,” Elia placed her hand on the stone seat beside her. “Come talk with me. Although we must no converse for too long, gardens are full of little birds just twittering away to sing songs of Martells and Lannisters conspiring,”

Jaime smiled wryly and sat down beside the Princess. It was true that King Rhaegar was unwilling for the pair to be alone together too often. Elia was rarely far from her handmaids, hovering behind her, ostensibly to serve.

Jaime meanwhile, himself once a member of the Kingsguard, now lived only to serve as hostage. So it had been ever since King Rhaegar had returned to King's Landing, new bride and son in tow, and stripped Jaime of his white cloak.

Whereas King Aerys's paranoia sent many a man, woman and child screaming to their deaths, Rhaegar's saved Jaime's life. Elia, on the other hand, only suffered from her role as hostage. Dorne still simmered in fury at her treatment, and that of her children. The only way of dampening the flames of their hatred was by holding the prize they treasured the most, their Princess.

“You have been training?” Elia asked Jaime, taking in his sweat soaked shirt.

“I have,” Jaime confirmed.

“For the tourney?”

Jaime shifted uncomfortably under Elia's piercing black gaze. The tourney held to celebrate the anniversary of the end of Robert's Rebellion, and the succession of Rhaegar and his Queen Lyanna to the Iron Throne. King Rhaegar now avoided the lists, and thus would be unable to crown his Queen with a wreath of winter roses as he had done all those years ago. But his son, Prince Jon, was fully grown and would honour his mother in his father's stead.

At least, that was the plan.

“I am training for the tourney,” Jaime told Elia, “And I will win,”

Elia smiled coyly, “And crown me your Queen of Love and Beauty?”

“ _The_ Queen of Love and Beauty,” Jaime corrected. He had it all planned. He would look the Stark girl dead in the eye, and ride straight past her. It would no doubt be taken as a snub and an insult, and Jaime intended it to be so. But even more, he desired to honour Elia. There were none more worthy than she, and she had long since been denied her crown.

“People will say we're in love,” she remarked lightly.

“People say a lot of things,” Jaime said dismissively, “We shall know the truth,”

Elia nodded lightly and placidly closed her hands. For all that Jaime cared for, even did love her, it was as a knight loved a lady. He was too tentative, too gentle. Like the rest of the world, he saw her as a frail broken thing, to be coddled and protected. That he respected her too was a pleasure and she relished his friendship. But she could never open herself to him, never show her true colours lest his regard was diminished. He saw her smile in the sun and laugh at a fool, and admired her for her ability to still find happiness in life.

If only he knew the truth, he would not be so chivalrous.

After all if her own husband had been incapable of loving her even when she truly was a good, kind lady; one who near killed herself bringing his children into the world, why would Ser Jaime care for her in the slightest once becoming accustomed to the hatred within her?

And she herself could not help but resent the man. Resent him for not killing the Mad King sooner, before he got his hands on her children. Or for interfering at all, forcing her to live with the memory of Rhaenys and Aegon's desperate screams.

Rhaegar had succeeded in defeating the rebels, but in his madness Aerys was convinced his own son was plotting against him. Elia and her children were summoned to the throne room, to face punishment for her husband's treason. Believing her to be a conspirator, she been left last. Upon entering the throne room her babes had been ripped from her arms and she was restrained by Gold Cloaks.

She screamed and kicked and pleaded, desperately reaching out to her children as Aegon cried Rhaenys called for her mama. She could not see what the guards were doing to her babes, but she heard the smacking of fists against flesh and the snap of bones. She heard their screams. Even after the screams stopped, she heard them.

Ser Jaime went straight for the King. Holding Aerys' severed head aloft, its bloodshot eyes wide and bulging, he declared Rhaegar king and ordered the Gold Cloaks leave the royal children be. Those Gold Cloaks who did not have the blood of children on their hands descended on their former comrades, switching sides in the flicker of a candle.

But it was too late. Rhaenys and Aegon died in Elia's arms. When Rhaegar returned, she was too numb to even register the insult of the annulment. What did it matter whether people called her Queen or whore, with her children dead?

As she slowly emerged from her cocoon of grief, anger at Rhaegar began to ripple through. Anger at him for leaving. Anger that he had time to hide his mistress-no, wife,-away in Dorne; in Elia's home, but not his own children. Anger at him refusing to send her there even now, holding her in purgatory as she waited out her life as his cast aside. Forced to walk the halls where the ghosts of her children still lingered to this day. Anger at keeping her from her brothers, from the family who loved her.

For Lyanna Stark, she felt nought but pity. It was common knowledge that Queen Lyanna was despised in her homeland, seen as a slut and traitor to her house. Dorne still cried for Elia, every letter from Prince Doran to Rhaegar pleading and bargaining for her to be sent home.

And how could she feel anything else for the woman who was now bound to Rhaegar for life, out of her own choice or not? Even as her healthy son grew stronger with every day, acknowledged by all as the future king.

If there was one thing Elia thanked Rhaegar for, it was for releasing her of her vows to him.

Elia would rather have gouged her eyes out with a hair pin, than be bound to that man and owe him wifely loyalty.

 


	3. Chapter 3

Lady Tarth descended upon her daughter in a flurry of skirts and sleeves. Brienne was engulfed in a cloud of perfume and she momentarily allowed herself to indulge in her embrace.

“Look at you,” her mother chided, “You're soaked to the skin.” She addressed Galladon over Brienne's shoulder, “Why didn't you bring her home the minute you found her?” she snapped.

“It was my decision Mother,” Brienne said quickly, “I wanted to be alone,”

Still clinging on tightly, Lady Tarth continued to look past her daughter and addressed the guards awaiting her orders.

“Alert his Lordship that him his daughter has been found,” she instructed them.

Along the battlements torches were lit, signifying Brienne's return. Brienne grimaced at the havoc her disappearance had caused.

Lady Tarth ushered her daughter to her chambers, fretting over the state of her and making noises about summoning a Maester. Brienne quickly shook her off, and fled to her chambers. Lady Tarth sighed as she watched her unfortunate daughter's retreating back. Now the relief of having her back safely, after being missing since the evening before, the truth had to be faced.

“My lady,” a timid voice called. Lady Tarth turned to see a maid hovering behind her, twitching at her skirts, “The Evenstar has returned and awaits you in your solar,”

Lady Tarth nodded tightly, “Have ale and some hot broth sent up,” she ordered, already marching towards her husband, “And have someone build up the fire. Also see that Lady Brienne is attended to,”

Lady Tarth greeted her husband with a wordless embrace. His clothes were as cold as ice and his muscled frame shivered in her arms. She guided him to his chair and sat him down, throwing a blanket over his shoulders before kneeling before him and easing off his boots. The fire was built up and soon the chambers were warm, the silence broken by the snap and crackling of the wood.

“How is Brienne?” Lord Selwyn asked between mouthfuls of steaming broth.

“In her chambers,” Lady Tarth replied, wiping away a dribble of gravy running down her lord's chin, “Would you have me send for her?”

“In time. We should allow her time to rest first, before discussing her future,” Lord Selwyn gulped down the last of his broth and stared into the flames, the low light illuminating the lines carved into his face and the black bags beneath his eyes.

It should have been a time of celebration. Their only daughter betrothed to an honourable man, who would protect and guard her. It had seemed the perfect match. He would bring his years of military expertise to Tarth and Brienne would remain safe near home. And the lady of her own Keep, small as it was. Or at least Lord Selwyn had been convinced, his wife on the other hand was far more pessimistic. Even if Ser Humfrey had not been an old man, she had her doubts. Doubts that were swiftly realised when Brienne took her sword to him. And now, instead of congratulating each other on a watch well made, the mood in Lady Tarth's solar was sour and despondent.

“That's the fifth betrothal that has fallen through,” Lady Tarth sighed, “And Brienne is a child no longer. We must accept the truth,”

Lord Selwyn rubbed his forehead and propped his elbows upon his table, “I know we've had some troubles,” he begun, “Perhaps we have been too indulgent with her. Dismissing her Septa and allowing her to take up the sword when we should have been making her into a lady-”

“I've done everything I could with her,” Lady Tarth said defensively, “Or are you blaming me for the way she has turned out?”

“Not at all, not at all,” Lord Selwyn corrected her hastily, “But you have had other duties to attend to. I was thinking we should send her away, somewhere where she could truly learn to be a lady. King's Landing perhaps?”

“Absolutely not!” Lady Tarth declared vehemently, “I will not have Brienne thrown to that viper's nest. We must think of another plan,”

“She is not yet five and twenty,” Selwyn pointed out, “There is time,”

“Time is not the problem,” Lady Tarth snapped, “It's Brienne!”

Seeing the look on her husband's face, Lady Tarth rolled her eyes and placed a hand on his shoulder. “My love,” she said softly, “Brienne is not made for the life of a lady. It is simply not for her. How much longer can you put her through all this shame and embarrassment? She has already made a name for herself. My lord, I beg you, spare what's left of her reputation now and desist in this folly,” she pleaded.

“Galladon is older than she, and not yet wed,” Selwyn pointed out.

“Not for lack of offers,” Lady Tarth rebuked, “Lord Mace Tyrell offered one of his nieces, and for a large dowry,”

A tentative smile twitched on Lord Selwyn's lips. “Lord Tyrell has several nephews-” he began, only to be sharply cut off.

“Brienne will never be happy in the Reach,” Lady Tarth interrupted, “I should know, I was born there. The Tyrells will expect Brienne to behave completely like a lady, there will be no leniency for her,”

“Mayhap the Tyrell ladies will set a good example for her,” Lord Selwyn suggested.

“My love, even if Lord Tyrell were to allow a match, do you really think she is suited for such a life?” Lady Tarth said, “No matter who she weds, Brienne will be an object of scorn. At least here she is the lord's daughter and most will know better than to taunt her too greatly. But if she were to go to the Highgarden, she will be surrounded by lords and ladies of equal or greater rank. There will be nothing to hold them back,”

“You expect the worst of people,” Selwyn frowned.

“I have to,” Lady Tarth said coldly, “If I wish to protect Brienne from anymore disappointment and humiliation,”

“So what do you suggest? Keep her hidden away in Evenfall Hall her entire life?” Selwyn said harshly.

“Of course not,” Lady Tarth scoffed, “But there may be a way to give her a chance to see the world, and do some good,”

“You don't mean...”

“I think Brienne will find much satisfaction with the life of a Septa,” Lady Tarth concluded.

Brienne; who was lurking on the other side of her mother's solar door, disagreed strongly.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“Lyanna my love,” Rhaegar smiled, leading his wife towards his desk and sitting her down, “To what do I owe this pleasure?”

Lyanna smiled back, hopeful. Rhaegar's hand on her arm had been warm, affectionate. He was looking down on her with sparkling purple eyes. The look on his face still made her heart rush after all these years, after all that had happened.

It seemed she had found a good moment to put forward her request.

“I had thought to invite my brother to your tourney,” Lyanna said, straining her voice to sound light, even as her hands clenched and creased the black satin of her skirts.

“The tourney is to celebrate the end of the rebellion,” Rhaegar shot Lyanna a sharp look over his desk, briefly taking his eyes away from the papers, “His presence would not be appropriate,”

“You pardoned him,” Lyanna pointed out, “And welcomed him back into your grace,”

“Only at your request,” Rhaegar said gruffly, “And only on the condition he remained North, never to venture South,”

He returned to his papers, seemingly absorbed. How Lyanna loathed being seated before him thus, as though she were a child in her father's solar. It reminded her of all the times she had been summoned by her father for a scolding. Barely a week went past without her in disgrace for some reason or other, skipping her needlework lessons and running around in her brother's breeches.

But she was a child no longer. She was Rhaegar's wife and his Queen. He would respect her, as he had sworn to when he first tempted her south with sweet promises and tender words.

Lyanna stood abruptly and marched round Rhaegar's desk. She clutched his chin and forced him to look her in the eye.

“Years have passed,” she said, forcing herself to be calm, “My brother has since been loyal to your throne. Please my beloved, allow me to see my brother once more. Let this tourney be a celebration of these years of peace between our houses,”

“I cannot welcome him the the South,” Rhaegar insisted, “Or would you have me look weak before the realm? I have already shown him far too much leniency on your behalf. There must be some consequence of treason, lest the other lords not fear my wrath and form their own uprisings,”

“Because you have been so successful thus far in preventing them!” Lyanna snapped.

Rhaegar's eyes grew cold and hard. Lyanna knew he loathed being reminded of the many skirmishes that had littered his reign. There were the battles in Pyke to start. And the plots of the Vale and Stormlands and Riverlands; all of whom resented the execution of their liege lords when Ned Stark and Jaime Lannister's crimes had been forgiven.

And then there had been the famines, the pestilences and the outlaws that had plagued the kingdom. All the troubles that fell upon the shoulders of the King. Yet the years passed and Rhaegar fell deeper and deeper into his scrolls and prophecies, obsessively planning over the Great War and the Prince That Was Promised. So much so that Jon Connington, his hand and trusted advisor, had grown irate and in trying to reason with the King lost Rhaegar's favour and was sent scurrying to the Stormlands.

Now such trivial matters such as food and peace fell upon the shoulders of the Small Council. Those scheming, grasping lords who cared only for lining their pockets.

“That all means nothing,” Rhaegar said dismissively, “The Great War is all that matters,”

Lyanna stifled a groan and rolled her eyes. The Great War shit again. She had been so impressed when Rhaegar first told her of the oncoming long night, of the prophecy and the dragon with three heads. Now it had all become a bit tiresome, considering he brought it up every time they had an argument.

“If you want to look strong,” Lyanna said tactfully, changing her approach, “Then show the kingdom a firm alliance between House Targaryen and House Stark, welcome Ned south,”

“I will not need any Northern armies soon,” Rhaegar said pensively, looking out the window.

Lyanna stilled. “What do you mean?”

“I had not yet made the announcement, but I suppose you shall need time to say your goodbyes,” Rhaegar began, “I am sending Jon to Essos, and I must find him worthy companions to accompany him. This tourney will give the men of this realm to prove their valour and earn the right to aide him in his mission,”

“You are sending Jon to Essos?” Lyanna asked numbly, “Why? _Why?”_

“Dragon eggs,” Rhaegar said simply, “Varys has brought me reports of Eggs in Essos. Three. Jon must retrieve them,”

Lyanna swallowed, fists clenching in the skirts of her gown. “Let me go with him,” she pleaded , reaching out and clutching his hand, digging her nails into his skin “Please,”

“Out of the question,” Rhaegar coolly detached himself from Lyanna's grip, “Your place is beside me,”

“My place is with my son,” Lyanna hissed. She was a wolf, and a wolf must defend her pack.

“Jon is a man grown, he cannot hid behind his mother's skirts any longer,”

“He is all the family I have left,” Lyanna whispered, “Do not take him from me,”

Rhaegar did not attempt to correct her. “We must all make sacrifices,”

“Then let me see my brother,” Lyanna begged, “Let me meet my nieces and nephews,”

“What does my permission matter?” Rhaegar asked, “Your brother would refuse, that if is he even replied. He has never done so before,”

Lyanna's blood flooded with ice. “How did you know Ned has not replied to my letters? Have you been reading my correspondence,”

“Of course I have,” Rhaegar replied, as though Lyanna was a fool for doubting he would.

Lyanna's lips narrowed and she pounded her fist against his desk. “Am I your wife or your hostage?” she demanded.

“You are both,” Rhaegar said calmly. He raised an eyebrow at Lyanna's wide eyes and shrugged. “You were the one who begged me not to have your nephew brought South,”

“How could you?” Lyanna stuttered, hands shaking.

“If you are going to be irrational, you are dismissed,” Rhaegar told her. He fixed his gaze on the papers before him, his wife forgotten.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Usually when Brienne was summoned to her father's study, she changed her tunic and combed her hair. Today, she tried to dress in a manner which she knew would please him. She would braid her hair and don one of her few gowns. It did little to make her look womanly, but the effort alone might warm her mother and father's hearts.

Galladon stood outside her chambers, smart and manly in a double of forest green. Brienne smiled slightly as she took her brother's arm and felt him trembling beside her. He too held suspicions as to what their meeting with Father would entail, and could only look towards it with anticipation. The Tyrells were legendary beauties and Galladon was ready to fall in love.

Brienne was glad that one of them would be walking away from the meeting satisfied.

They reached Father's study and were admitted immediately. Father stood before his desk, one hand on Mother's shoulder who sat beside him. She lay her embroidery to one side and smiled with pleasure at the sight of them.

“Galladon,” she said warmly, “Brienne. Come sit down. Your father has some exciting news for the both of you,”

Selwyn clasped Galladon's shoulder and beamed at him. Galladon grinned expectantly back.

“Well?” he asked.

“Lord Tyrell have settled the terms,” Lord Selwyn announced with pride, “You are to wed Lady Elinor Tyrell when she turns fifteen,”

“And a very pretty young maid she is too,” Lady Tarth added.

Galladon nodded, slightly dismayed at being forced to wait. Lord Selwyn laughed and clapped Galladon on the back.

“Come now lad!” he boomed heartily, “Don't look so down. It will only be a few months before you are wed,”

“Enough time for you to start courting her now,” Lady Tarth suggested, “I've had my milliner bring a few things to my chamber that might please the lady. You and I shall look through them later and see what may make a suitable gift for her,”

“And the Tyrells have promised me fifty men to help guard the East Coast,” Lord Selwyn concluded , “Which shall be a great boon to us,”

Lady Tarth turned to Brienne, at which point Lord Selwyn's smile grew slightly fixed.

“Brienne,” she began, “You shall remain here until after your brother's wedding-”

“And then sent to a Septry,” Brienne finished dully.

Lady Tarth's smile faltered and her eyes widened. “How did you know?” she stuttered.

Galladon cut in before Brienne had time to answer.

“What?” he demanded, “You cannot be serious?”

“It is for the best,” Lady Tarth insisted, swiftly regaining her composure, “To be a Septa is most honourable, Brienne sweetling, and as one you could do much good. Tending to the ill and teaching the young,”

“And in time you may even teach Galladon's children,” Selwyn put in hopefully.

Forcing herself to sound reasonable, Brienne nodded. “I see the merit in your words,” she conceded, “But I have no desire to become a Septa,”

“Why not?” Lady Tarth asked impatiently, “You must have some role in the world, and that of lady and wife have already been proven inappropriate for you,”

“Because if I become a Septa I shall be forbidden from wielding a sword,” Brienne explained, her treacherous voice trembling at the thought, “They will not allow me to continue in my training,”

“Certainly not,” Lady Tarth scoffed, “In truth, you have been indulged in your foolishness far too long,”

“Dear one,” Lord Selwyn explained consolingly, “We only permitted you to practise at swords as an amusement, something to divert you and to focus your energy. We never intended you to become a swords woman,”

“But I'm _good,”_ Brienne pleaded, voice cracking in desperation, “Ser Goodwin always said I showed promise, and I have been defeating Gal ever since I was five and ten,”

“It's true,” Galladon quickly interjected, “Brienne is a better fighter than I shall ever be. Don't send her to a Septry. Train her to become Master of Arms,”

“Absolutely not,” Lady Tarth said in disgust.

“That is not the way things are done,” Lord Selwyn added softly.

“But it is they way things are done in Dorne,” Brienne pointed out, “And on Bear Island! Father,” she turned to him frantically, “Send me to Dorne or to the North, ask if I will be welcomed into one of their households and-”

“Enough!” Lady Tarth snapped, standing in her agitation, “There will be no more talk of Brienne going either to the South or the North. I will not have my only daughter sent to such barbarous countries. Brienne, you will go to the Sept at Storm's End and put aside your foolish talk of fighting,”

Galladon watched his little sister digest their mother's words, Father silent. Brienne's face was pale and eyes were damp. And yet, Galladon saw with his heart sinking to the pit of his stomach, she clenched her teeth and nodded.

#

“Brienne!” Galladon hissed, storming into Brienne's bedchamber, “Brienne, tell me you are not really going to allow this to happen,”

Brienne looked up to him with scorn. “Of course not,” she snapped. She straightened up, revealing herself to have changed into dark and sturdy clothes, thick breeches and padded vest. By her feet was a pack, stuffed with spare clothes and supplies. Galladon caught a hint of of gold glittering in Brienne's hands as she hastily buried her few jewels into the depths of her bag.

“You're running away,” he murmured.

Brienne nodded silently, “And don't even think of stopping me,” she ordered.

“Of course not,” Galladon said hastily, “But why must you run now, they are not sending you away until after my wedding?”

“Because I could not keep up the lie until then,” Brienne explained, “And the King's Tourney is in two weeks,”

Galladon's eyes widened in shock. “You wish to compete in the King's Tourney?”

“In the melee, the prize is six hundred gold dragons. Enough to get me to Bear Island and keep me going a while if they turn me away,”

Galladon started shaking his head. “Brienne, you cannot do this-” he began.

“I can and will!” Brienne growled, pulling herself to her full height.

“Let me finish. You cannot do this, without a suit of armour,”

#

The armour clanked and creaked beautifully. Brienne had never been allowed a proper suit, and was forced to make do with Galladon's cast offs. In the dim light Gal had silently helped Brienne find the pieces that fit her best. Brienne was left with a hodge podge suit of armour of different metals and styles. And yet as they made their way to the small boat at the base of the cliff, Brienne felt like a true knight.

The excitement rippling beneath her skin and coursing through her blood nearly dulled the guilt in the base of Brienne's stomach. She knew the panic that her disappearance would be met with in the morning when her flight had been discovered. Father would have every man at arms searching for her, and Mother would be in hysterics.

Although Brienne was a head taller than Lady Tarth and twice as broad, she was still her mother's baby. Her last surviving child and only daughter.

When dawn broke the next morning, her mother's heart would break along with it.

But the moon was still high in the sky, reigning over a court of stars. The night was still and silent, but for the steady rise and fall of the sea against the waves.

Brienne placed her bag of supplies into the boat, before turning to her brother. He held out her shield, holding it up against the light of the moon.

“It's old, but in good condition,” he told her “Look at the sigil,”

“It's beautiful,” she whispered, running her hand along the peeling paintwork. A tree beneath a falling star.

“Father told me this shield belonged to a great and noble knight,” Galladon told her, “But he will be nothing compared to you. Take this shield, and go. Go and become a knight. Do great things and bring honour to out house. Defend the weak and slay the wicked. And then-” he choked and swallowed, blinking rapidly as he pushed the shield into her hands, “And then come back and tell me all about it,”

Brienne nodded wordlessly, taking the shield and laying it in the boat. She then pulled her brother into one final embrace, before breaking free and sailing off into the night.

 


	6. Chapter 6

Lyanna had been cloistered in her rooms all day, refusing to leave out of spite for her husband. Hot and stuffy in her crimson gown, she thrust the windows open and paced her chambers. She brusquely dismissed her handmaids with a wave of the hand.

They scattered quickly, used to their Queen's temper. As they moved swiftly past, she caught a distinct look of mirth on their smug faces. She loathed those ladies, constantly flittering around her and twittering like a pack of birds. But Rhaegar insisted she have them.

Many were hostages also, or else appointed as honours to their family. She despised them and in turn many resented her. Proud ladies of the Vale, Riverlands and Stormlands who scorned the treacherous Northern Queen. Meanwhile the elegant women of the Reach and Westerlands considered her uncultured and savage, even as they smiled and fawned.

Of course there were no ladies of Dorne, for which she was grateful. She would have welcomed a woman of her homeland, even if they likely to loathe her the most.

Lyanna soon spotted the cause of her ladies' derision and grabbed at the arm of the remaining maid, who had lingered significantly. She grimaced on discovering it was Margaery Tyrell. Lady Margaery was intelligent, beautiful and witty. She could light up a room with her mere presence and was capable of befriending near every person she met.

But she and her family had been scheming to wed her to the Prince; to Lyanna's Jon, and Lyanna had to resent her. Lord Mace Tyrell had been invited to court, under the guise of discussing marriage negotiations with Rhaegar. Already, many looked upon and treated Margaery as the future Queen, even though no announcement had been made. Not yet, anyway. The Reach lords had fought for the Targaryens faithfully, the Tarly's having already been rewarded with the hand of Princess Daenerys. The Tyrells demanded their due payment also, and only the future King would do.

Only Lyanna's son.

“What is this?” she snapped, gesturing towards the mounds of gifts laid across the table. The fine leather saddles, the miniature suits of armour and swords, the dolls and the beautiful rich velvets.

“They have just arrived from the North your Grace,” Lady Margaery said with a sympathetic smile that nearly made Lyanna wretch. She dismissed Margaery with another wave of her hand and inspected the gifts with a sinking stomach.

They had been gifts intended for her family. For her brother and his wife, her nieces and nephews. She had hoped that this time they would not be returned. Her letters were never sent back, which used to give her a cause for hope. Then a messenger had informed her that her brother passed the letter along to Lady Stark, with orders to see if it contained anything 'of note'. Lyanna suspected her declarations of love and pleas for forgiveness were not considered as such.

Rhaegar was right. Even with his permission, her brother would never come to her. Their father had died, their brother had died, the man he saw as a father and his best friend had died. Thousands upon thousands of lives had been destroyed.

He had looked so confused the day he saw her standing at Rhaegar's side, as though he could not reconcile the woman before him with the little sister he had adored.

“Lya?” Ned had asked, looking more boy than man, “Lya, they are saying you went willingly?”

Her husband was King of Seven Kingdoms, and yet she none of those kingdoms were her home. She was a Queen without a country, a wolf without a pack.

**#**

Jaime wondered which little bird had been twittering in Varys's ear. He had never been refused the right to wield a sword before, nor participate in a joust. It could only be his plan to crown Elia that had lead Rhaegar to his decision. There was already too much sympathy in the court for Elia, Dornish she may be. For Jaime; with his dubious loyalties and dubious family, to honour her so publicly...it would be a direct insult.

Which was rather why he was hoping to do it.

He wished to scorn the King and Queen near as much as he needed to honour Elia. To show the respect he held for her, for her strength and grace in the face of such suffering.

But no, once again he was useless.

It seemed that his one moment of use would have been betraying the King he had sworn to protect. He threw his name to the dogs and yet Rhaenys and Aegon still died, and their mother still heartbroken. Years had come and gone, and still there was nought he could do for her.

He was a de-fanged lion without his pride. Father and Tyrion were forbidden to write, and he was left in agony over who was protecting his little brother. Certainly not Tywin, little Tyrion's greatest tormentor.

Jaime couldn't stop calling his brother little Tyrion. For even though he was now a man, he could not help but think of him as the child he last saw at Casterly.

And Cersei...last he saw Cersei she was pleading with him to reconcile her husband; Lord Jon Connington, to Rhaegar. He had tried to tell her at the time it was futile, but still she loathed his failure and blamed him for sentencing her to a life wasting away in the Stormlands.

“Well then, how is my champion?” a a sweet voice called.

Jaime stiffened and bowed respectfully before Princess Elia, brushing her small hand with his lips. Behind her stood two young handmaids. Jaime frowned at the sight of them. He had seen them before and had not judged them particularly plump or buxom, yet beside them Elia looked thin and hollow.

“Rhaegar must have found out,” he muttered bitterly, “I've been forbidden to compete,”

The smile on Elia's face faltered, before being fixed firmly in place once more.

“He only did so because he knew you would win,” she reassured him, “Otherwise he wouldn't have bothered,”

“I didn't care about winning,” Jaime spat. Elia raised an eyebrow and Jaime smiled ruefully.

“Alright, I cared a bit about winning,” he conceded, “But mostly I wanted to see you crowned,”

Elia leaned forward conspiratorially and patted his arm. “If it's any consolation, I didn't care about you winning either. I just wanted a crown,”

“Well it's long overdue,” Jaime told her.

The smile fled from Elia's narrow face and she glanced furtively over her shoulder. “You should not speak so,” she rebuked him sharply.

Jaime glared at the impudent handmaids, before shrugging carelessly. “You would not refuse me the right to say you deserve to be honoured, just once?”

Elia paused. In truth, she desperately desired to be crowned. To see Rhaegar rebuked and Lyanna shunned. How sweet that would be.

Yet more than anything, Elia wished to be seen as beautiful. After all these years of her face not being fair enough, her form not pleasing enough and her body not strong enough. To be crowned Queen of Love and Beauty would have been a very fine thing indeed. And this was likely to be her last chance

But no, that was for other women. Women bursting with vitality and spirit. Her feeble body had always marked her a failure. Now more than ever, for Elia would have loved to blame the aches in her body down to disappointment. But she knew better.

As did the Maester.

 


	7. Chapter 7

Brienne had never known a stink such as the one in King's Landing. Not even when she and Gal once wrestled in a pig's sty. Sweat and shit clogged her nostrils the moment she arrived at Blackwater Bay. Even so, she could not help but feel elated as she walked the bustling streets. The whole city teemed with life. Travellers from the furthest corners of the kingdom all gathered within the walls of King's Landing, each with their own story. Their own hopes and dreams.

In her man's clothes and hood pulled low, Brienne moved unseen. With proud Knights and Great Lords parading down the cobbled streets on their fine mounts, in their shining armour and brandishing their joyous banners, who would pay notice to one such as her? The King's Tourney had attracted the chivalry of near every kingdom, and the city was in uproar preparing.

Jugglers and jokers and singers and storytellers capered along the streets, rubbing shoulders with vendors crying their wares. The air may have stank but even so it carried magic and music.

Brienne cut through the crowds, her height and strength clearing her path. At the entrance of the tourney ground she joined the queue of hedge knights and free riders seeking admission to the tournament. She had smeared her already dirtied face with mud, and mumbled in a deep voice. She stood amongst men filthier than herself, and those listing down the combatants had many to deal with. And none wished to waste much time on a peasant when there were nobles to serve.

She entered under the name Duncan Storm.

With the city bursting at the seams, Brienne struggled to find lodgings. In the end an in-keep offered her a mattress in a barn. Uncomfortable as it was, she was able to hide the jewels she had taken from home under a loose floorboard beneath her mattress.

Accommodation sorted, Brienne threw herself into training. She was going up against talent the likes of which she had never seen. Her gender disguised with bulky clothes and dirtied face, Brienne found herself never going short for would be opponents at the training yards near the tourney grounds. Her height and obvious strength marked her out as a contender, and many were eager to test their skills against her.

But Brienne kept mostly to herself. Disguised as she was, she feared discovery greatly. Especially with her father sure to be looking for her. Galladon assured he would not give her away, yet even so she constantly found herself looking over her shoulders. It was better to avoid being out in the open as much as possible.

Furthermore, Brienne knew that it was better to give her opponents too great an indication of her skill. Many would see her size and presume she was slow. But since the moment she began training the importance of speed had been drilled into her. Despite her height, Brienne was swift as she was sturdy.

In training, she focussed her energies on observing her opponents and making note of their styles and tricks. Those who moved like a battling ram but would be helpless once on their backs. Those whose movements were fluid and lithe, but would go down with a quick kick to the chest. And those who pranced around, twirling and looking impressive, and would last about five minutes before eating the dirt.

Brienne lurked in the corners, watching them all with an eagle eye. But she was not the only one observing.

“You boy!” an imperious voice called over the training yards the third day after her arrival. Brienne had noticed the man watching her before, and in her paranoia had demanded his identity of a passing stable hand.

It had been to her relief that she discovered it to be the Kingslayer, Ser Jaime Lannister. Brienne doubted that the Lannister heir would be trailing her on her father's behalf. Instead, his notice had caused a slight flutter of hope within her belly. Although forbidden from competing, the Kingslayer had taken advantage of the new blood to test his skills.

That he had been watching Brienne made her hope; just a bit, that he had seen promise. His loyalties as dubious as they were, he was still renowned as one the best swordsman in the kingdom.

Even so, Brienne lingered. She was reluctant to go near the man. Wherever the Kingslayer went, a crowd gathered. And should he deign to spar he always drew an attentive audience. Brienne could not risk such exposure.

“Boy, come _here!”_ the Kingslayer cried once more, with mounting impatience.

Brienne's eyes darted around the yard. The crowd was at its lowest, with the majority of the competitors having left for their evening meal. The night was beginning to descend and the yard was in shadows. She decided she could risk it.

Brienne shuffled forwards, mumbling her apologies. The Kingslayer looked irate at her slowness, his jaw clenching. She grimaced. She had to remember, she was a peasant. When a noble called, she jumped.

“My apologies milord,” she murmured.

The Kingslayer raised an eyebrow. “Are you as stupid as you are ugly, or are you just slow?”

“I'm quick when I need to be, milord,” Brienne shot back.

A languid smile tugged at the corner of the Kingslayer's lips. “So I've noticed,” he told her, “For someone of humble origins, you seem to have had good training,”

Brienne mumbled something incoherent as a response.

“Can you joust?”

“Yes,”

“As well as you fight?”

Brienne shook her head truthfully. “Nearly as well, but I prefer the melee,”

“I can see that, you have the build for it,” the Kingslayer nodded.

Ser Jaime circled her, eyeing her up like a vulture. Brienne resisted the urge to cross her arms over her chest, feeling rather as though the man could see right through her.

“Not many smallfolk are trained to joust,” Ser Jaime pointed out.

Brienne cursed her stupidity. If Ser Jaime were to see she was not being truthful...

“Nor women,”

Fuck. An icy hand clenched around Brienne's stomach.

“How did you know?” she hissed, looking over her shoulder to see if anyone were nearby.

Ser Jaime smiled reassuringly. “No one heard,” he assured her, “And I know because I have been watching you,” he grimaced at the wording, “Sorry if that sounds disturbing, I've been watching you train. And I was wondering how a peasant came to acquire such skills,”

“Will you tell?” Brienne gulped.

He did not answer. “Do you expect to win?” he said instead.

“I expect to _learn,”_ Brienne said earnestly, “I expect to leave a better fighter than I came,”

“Or crippled,” Ser Jaime said agreeably, “Or dead,”

“I know the risks,” she snapped.

“And you know the risks if you are revealed?” he questioned.

“Humiliation, dishonour on my family, and swiftly sent back home to become a Septa,” she replied succinctly, “Will you reveal me?”

“Tell me, what would you do for me in return for a favour?” he stood before her, feelings hidden in the shadows.

“The favour of not being revealed?” Brienne questioned.

“The favour of being taught, to joust, by me,” Ser Jaime announced.

Brienne's heart raced. Ser Jaime Lannister wished to teach her?

“W-why?” she stuttered.

“You say you are near good at jousting as you are fighting,” he explained, “I am inclined to believe you, though we shall soon put that to the test. If I decide you are worthy of teaching, you will bow out of the melee and enter the jousting lists instead,”

“And this is the favour you would have me do for you?” Brienne asked tentatively.

“No,” Ser Jaime bared his teeth into the smile of a shark, “I would have you win,”

 


	8. Chapter 8

The armour Ser Jaime had sourced for her was better; stronger and more endurable. The mount listened to her lightest cue. The shield, the shield she insisted on keeping. Galladon had pressed it into her hands when he made her promise to bring glory to their house. Ser Jaime had rolled his eyes at her sentimentality but conceded to her wish.

Ser Jaime had worked her harder than anyone she had ever known. Even harder than Ser Goodwin, who never let her sex or status hold him back. Brienne was covered in bruises, having been thrown to the ground more times than she could count. And yet Ser Jaime never gave up on her, even as Brienne lay weeping into the saw dust. He pushed and pushed, but never too far as to break her.

And now, here she stood. On the morning of the first day of the joust. The melee had came and went, Brienne watching longingly on the sidelines before Ser Jaime dragged her away for more training. The lance still felt unfamiliar in her hand, unlike the sword which was an extension of her arm.

Ser Jaime stood beside Brienne as she tended her horse. He frowned as he noted the tension in her shoulders, the sickly green pallor of her skin.

“You nervous?” he asked lightly.

Brienne gave a tight a nod, afraid to open her mouth lest vomit spew forth.

“Good,” Jaime said, “You'd be a fool if you weren't. It's a dangerous game, there will men entering the lists today leaving as corpses,”

“Very reassuring,” Brienne scoffed.

Jaime clasped his hand on her shoulder and smiled. She could not feel his grip beneath her armour, and yet even so his touch made her heart leap.

“You're strong,” he told her, “You're brave, and thanks to me, you're good. I wouldn't ask you to do this if I didn't think you could handle it. And if I thought you were dead meat I certainly wouldn't-”

“Risk my life?” Brienne finished sceptically.

Ser Jaime rolled his eyes. “No, I wouldn't waste my time, and I probably wouldn't waste my coin on your armour and horse,”

Brienne grimaced and nodded. “That I believe,”

“You and I both know the risks,” he told her, “And we both know it will be worth it,”

“Why?” she asked suddenly, “Why is it worth it for you?”

Jaime paused, taking in her question. He clutched her hand and wordlessly led her from the stables. They made their way through the campsite, past the grubby canvases propped up on sticks, belonging to the hedge knights and sell swords, and through the large pavilions with the fluttering banners in the colours of every knightly and noble house in the realm.

The King's Tourney had been going on for days now, but today the anticipation was at its highest with the start of the Joust. Brienne would not be participating until later in the day, under her fake name and with no banner to raise. Her first tilt would be of no interest to anyone but her and Ser Jaime.

“That will change,” Ser Jaime told her, “When an unknown peasant storms up the lists and defeats the greatest knights in the kingdom,”

They reached the tilt-yards, where the first riders were waiting for the Queen to signal the start of the joust. Brienne saw the Kingslayer's gaze turn towards the stalls, where the King and Queen sat on padded cushions.

King Rhaegar was as handsome as his reputation said, long platinum hair and storm filled violet eyes. The silver of his hair shone bright and silver against the his black velvet cape and red silk tunic. On his head was a crown of ruby studded black metal, twisted to form the claws and scales of a dragon.

The colours of House Targaryen suited his wife significantly less so. Her pale face peered out from her long black hair and silk black gown, stark and white.

“She is unhappy,” the Kingslayer muttered.

“Her son is competing for the first time,” Brienne said, “She is nervous for him?”

“Probably, and jealous,”

“Jealous?” Brienne repeated, “She wishes to compete,”

“Every tourney, she wishes to compete,” Ser Jaime told her, “And every tourney the King forbids her,”

Even on Tarth, Brienne had heard of Robert's Rebellion and the love that had torn the kingdom apart. She had thought a love which had caused such destruction and crushed so many lives would be much warmer than the one she saw before her.

“You can always tell when they have had a falling out,” Ser Jaime told her, “Winter comes early to the Red Keep. The King plays his harp through the night and she locks herself in her chambers , only leaving when the Prince coaxes her out for a ride,”

“What is the Prince like?”

Jaime shrugged. “Nice enough, a bit dim. But considering his parents that's to be expected,”

Brienne lowered her voice. “You do not like the King and Queen?”

Jaime's eyes flittered across the crowds, resting upon a wan looking woman sitting on the edge of the stalls. She was swathed in shimmering orange velvet, and watching the competition with a blank gaze. Jaime's face softened and on catching her eye gave her a respectful nod.

“Princess Elia of Dorne,” he murmured softly.

“King Rhaegar's first wife,” Brienne said.

“When the tourney was announced I promised to compete, and name her my Queen of Love and Beauty. I promised to right the wrong done to her at the Tourney of Harrenhal. The King forbade me,” he finished bitterly.

“You wish me to ride in your place?” Brienne realised, “You wish me to crown her my Queen of Love and Beauty?”

“Her husband humiliated her and abandoned her, leaving her with his demented father. She watched her children; for whom she almost died bringing into the world, be crushed before her eyes. She then saw her husband return with his new wife and new child, and has spent the last years held captive, far from her family. And yet she is kind, and loving and one of my greatest friends. She deserves her crown,”

Brienne stared at the woman before her. Princess Elia. Brienne felt an aching sadness stir within her as she pondered on Jaime's words. She had been cast aside, humiliated and held up to be an object of scorn and pity.

Brienne knew all too well how that felt.

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

The crowds watched her climb the list with mounting curiosity. This unknown, faceless competitor with no sigils nor songs. Rumours began to abound. Some said she was a Stark, sneaking into the tournament to shame the King. Others preferred to believe she was an exiled prince, there to gain favour and aide from the Westerosi.

One drunken patron of an inn had suggested she was Robert Baratheon returned from the dead, valiantly fighting to reclaim his stolen bride. He was immediately shouted down, his detractors crying that if anyone the unknown knight was Ser Duncan the Tall, come again.

Clearly these were far more reasonable explanations than that of an ugly lord's daughter, fleeing from the drudgery of a life behind the walls of a Septry.

Brienne had closed her ears to these rumours. Nothing existed but the next tilt. The last three days had seemed to pass in a blur, every second counting down to her next match. The roar of the crowds would dull in her hears as she waited for the signal. She would fixate on her horse beneath her, the lance in her hand and the opponent before her. She had faced up against green squires, ruthless sworn swords and celebrated knights. Each one she had seen fly from their saddle and into the sawdust.

Every bruise and cheer and charge had led to this moment. Her final tilt. Across her Prince Jon prepared to mount. Her exact opposite, dark and lithe. His armour inlaid with rubies and his mother's favour tucked into his plate. The crowds cheered for him as they once cheered for his father, looking to the young Prince for hope. For a sign of a brighter future.

Prince Jon was known to be valiant, kind and noble. He listened to petitions as his father skulked in his study. His skill with the sword was praised as was his diligence in his studies. The kingdom had watched him grow from an awkward young boy to a proud and beloved prince. All watched him with bated breath, waiting for him to bring great glory to himself, to his family and to his country as a whole.

They would have to keep waiting. Today would not be that day.

In the seconds before Queen Lyanna dropped her handkerchief to signal the final tilt, Brienne allowed herself a moment to spy Jaime in the crowd. He was sitting beside Princess Elia, a tight smile on his face. He was nervous, but his emerald green eyes glittered as he gave her a brief nod. He believed in her. He had told Brienne so himself. He had clasped her hand and told her that she could do this. That she had come so far and he was so proud.

Brienne swallowed and clung onto that moment; held his smile and regard in her heart, before fixing her gaze on Prince Jon. She raised her lance, narrowed her eyes, and charged.

Within seconds the Prince was flying from his seat. A cloud of dust rose as the prince desperately stumbled to his feet, only to go clattering to the feet once more. Pages and squires scurried forwards, dragging and pulling him to his feet.

Brienne's horse cantered beneath her, skipping and rearing at the sound of the cheers. Numb, Brienne whispered soothing words and stroked it's neck. Her mount calmed just as as Brienne's own heart began dancing. The audience was on their feet, roaring and stamping their feet and screaming themselves hoarse. Brienne peered through her helmet, dazed and spinning. Her eyes searched frantically, panicking momentarily when she failed to see him. When she did, the smile stretching his face and the joy radiating from his eyes told her that it wasn't all a lie.

She had won.

Brienne laughed breathlessly and thrust her splintered lance triumphantly into the air, to the audience's approbation. She rode laps around the arena, basking in the adulation. She had never been so loved before. So admired and welcomed. In a moment; in an all too brief moment, the cheers would die and silence would reign.

But this was her time. Brienne's chance to celebrate her victory. She had earned it and she intended to enjoy it.

It was only when her horse began to flag and Brienne atop it that she drew to a halt before the King and Queen. The pair remained seated before her, handsome and stern as stone.

“Duncan Storm!” the King thundered as the noise died down, “Champion of the Joust!”

The audience were swept up in cheers once more, and Brienne closed her eyes to relish in the sound for a second longer, before finding her voice.

“No,” she said from beneath her helm, “That is not my name,”

She swept her helmet from her head and squared her shoulders. Her forehead was slick with sweat, and her blonde hair matted tangled. Brienne forced her eyes to meet the King straight on, even as the cheers died and murmurs filled the crowd. The spectators frowned in confusion. Why did their champion have such a feminine voice?

“I am Brienne of Tarth,” she announced, “Daughter of Lord Selwyn, Evenstar of Tarth,”

The murmurs of the crowd rose into a complete din, outrage and an insulting amount of disbelief spreading through the crowds of thousands. Brienne watched the King with her heart in her throat. Would he refuse to grant her the victory? Would he shame her and cast her in irons for her deceit? Her stomach squirmed and rose threateningly and yet not once did she avert her gaze as she awaited his decision.

From the corner of her eye, Brienne spied Queen Lyanna clutch the King's sleeve and tug at it pointedly. The King turned to smile at his wife, before facing Brienne once more.

“Our Champion of the Joust!” he cried once more, “Lady Brienne of Tarth!”

Brienne's spirits soared, and yet she did not allow herself to feel gratitude for the King's words. Instead she waited as a page stumbled forward, clutching a crown of flowers to be presented to her Queen of Love and Beauty. Brienne took it, well aware the storm that may break from her next move.

Had she been weaker, Brienne would have been tempted to take the easy choice and accept the King's gesture of friendship. But she had made a promise to Ser Jaime and to Elia, for whom she felt an inexplicable kinship.

Brienne steered her mount and cantered to the edge of the seated stalls, where Princess Elia sat before a beaming Jaime. She gave a quick, almost bashful smile, before bowing her head before the Princess.

“Princess Elia,” she said softly, “It would be my honour to name you my Queen of Love and Beauty,”

Princess Elia's smile was small and polite, her bearing formal. And yet her eyes were guileless, lit with untainted happiness.

“And it would be my honour to accept, Lady Brienne,” Princess Elia replied, the slightest crack in her gracious voice.

The crowd was now silent. Stares ranging from uncertainty to dislike and mirth bore into Brienne's back, and yet Brienne saw none of it.

Galladon had begged her to bring honour to herself and their House, and Brienne felt with some certainty that she was off to a very good start.

 


	10. Chapter 10

“Will you be playing the harp tonight husband?” Lyanna asked, smiling lovingly. Regardless of how the event proceeded, she was touched that her husband had allowed the Tarth woman to accept her victory. In the high spirits of the tournament, and Ned's persistent refusal to write to her, Lyanna had found herself allowing herself to extend the olive branch.

“Perhaps later,” Rhaegar offered, “If the time is right,”

“You want your father to play tonight, don't you Jon?” Lyanna persisted, turning to her son.

“If that would make you happy Mother,” Jon said obligingly.

“It would make me happier if you would allow the Maester to attend to those bruises,” Lyanna retorted.

Jon scowled at the memory of his defeat, and the insult paid to his parents by Lady Brienne.

As champion of the King's Tourney and; it now appeared, a lady of noble birth, Lady Brienne was immediately welcomed to stay in the Red Keep. It was only her stunt with the crown of flowers that kept her from a place of honour at the high table by the King's side.

Instead she sat at a lower table, wedged in next to the Kingslayer and across from Princess Elia. The polite smile usually fixed upon the Princess's face seemed more genuine than usual, the candlelight picking out the bronze in her curtain of black hair and her amber eyes sparkling.

Lady Brienne's confidence in the yard clearly did not translate to the feast hall, judging from the way she squirmed under the scrutiny of the court. She wore a crimson tunic borrowed from Ser Jaime. The colour did little for her, as did the fit.

Ser Jaime led the conversation, relishing in the company of the two ladies. He raised his flagon in a toast, first to Lady Brienne and second to Princess Elia. Already red, Lady Brienne's cheeks flared as Ser Jaime clasped her shoulder approvingly.

Despite the obvious discomfort, Lyanna spied the pride radiating from Lady Brienne.

Lyanna remembered the first and last time she had participated in a joust. She remembered the headiness of it, how she snuck in and knocked those proud squires onto their asses. The thrill at having defied her father and doing what everyone told her she should not.

It was an excitement only matched by the night she had fled to Dorne with Rhaegar.

He had whispered such sweet things into her ears. Promises of love and adventure, of freedom. His voice as low and musical as his harp, he helped her mount onto the back of his horse and had her hold tight as they galloped away into the night, brave knights of the Kingsguard hot on their heels. Her heart had been pounding against Rhaegar's armoured back, the wind whipping at her cheeks and clawing at her hair.

It felt as though she were riding straight into a fairy tale, into love and passion and away from rules and duty.

Away from her family.

With the stars smiling down at them and Rhaegar's promises singing in her heart, Lyanna could not begin to comprehend that the future would be nought but bliss. It was so apparent that she and Rhaegar were perfect for each other, surely all others would see it too? And her father and Robert Baratheon and Elia Martell would all bend to her will when they were confronted with the truth of their love.

Who would protest such a perfect fairy tale? A song come to life?

A kingdom, it seemed.

And now Father and Brandon were dead, her remaining brothers and the realm despised her. She was shut up in this red castle with that scrawny Elia Martell ghosting around with her sad smile and sickening air of martyrdom.

Lyanna could not even escape to the streets of King's Landing, not ever since she had been rained down on with cries of “whore!” and “slut!” and fistfuls of mud and stone. Then Rhaegar had forbidden her to compete in tourneys and jousts. And when year after year had passed and her womb did not quicken, Lyanna was barred from the sparring yards lest it be the swordplay that dislodged children from her womb.

But not even Rhaegar had thought to keep her from the saddle, even he knew not to take that away from her. But that was a small consolation for all she had lost. And Rhaegar; the husband that the realm had bled for her to claim, was nothing like Silver Prince who had spirited her away that night.

There were times when she looked into his eyes and found herself thinking that if she had not stubbornly made up her mind to do so, Lyanna would no longer be in love with him. But how could she let go of that love when he was all she had left? He and Jon. Jon, who was soon to leave her for the distant climes of Essos.

“When will you make the announcement about Jon's quest to Essos?” Lyanna asked quietly.

“Tonight,” was Rhaegar's succinct answer, “I have made my decision on the men who shall accompany him,”

“Not Lady Brienne?” Lyanna demanded.

“No, her display with the flowers shows that she cannot be trusted on such a delicate mission. I will overlook her actions as that of the folly of youth and misplaced chivalry, but I require strong and seasoned men to aide our son,” Rhaegar told her.

“You should send her back to her father in disgrace,” Lyanna prompted, a malevolent force taking a hold of her. When she had seen the Tarth girl stand before her in the stalls, vibrant with victory, Lyanna had seen herself in her youth. A young girl on the search for glory, right on the cusp of adventure.

It had been a blow to the gut to see that girl turn her back on her.

Now Lyanna could barely stand the sight of Lady Brienne's homely face.

“Send her back to Lord Selwyn,” she insisted, “He is bound to be angered by her indiscretions and wish her returned to him. The Stormlands is already volatile and it is only Lord Connington's insistent loyalty to you that prevents full on rebellion. If you were to anger one of their most respected lords now-”

“Enough!” Rhaegar snapped, slapping his fist against the table and upsetting his goblet of wine, “I will hear no more on the petty squabbles of men,”

His outburst had caught the attention of the feast hall. Rhaegar took the opportunity to stand and the remainder of the hubbub subsided.

“My lords and ladies,” he cried out, “These past weeks have been a time for celebration. A time for joy and summer. We have seen great and noble men play valiantly at the art of war,” Rhaegar's face turned grave and his eyes sharp, “But a true war awaits us. Not a war for summer, nor a war between man and man. But a war between the living and the dead,”

A deathly hush had descended upon the hall. Many had heard of Rhaegar's obsession with prophecy, had even jested about it. But on seeing their King stand so earnestly before them now drained all amusement from the matter. To watch him was to know that they were either truly facing a reckoning from the monsters of their childhood nightmares, or they once more had a mad king on the throne.

“This is a war not even the most valiant of men can win alone. And so my son, Prince Jon, shall journey to Essos and reclaim three dragon eggs. From these eggs living dragons shall hatch and the glory of the Targaryens shall be restored once more!” Rhaegar declared.

This would have been the time to cheer, Lyanna thought, but none came. Rhaegar did not seem to mind nor notice. He was beyond the realms of men.

“Upon his return, Prince Jon shall be wed to the Princess Daenerys, who shall also be joined in wedlock to the Prince Viserys. Together, they shall be the three headed dragon and lead this realm to victory against the dead,”

Lyanna shot a quick look to Jon, to see if he had expected this. Judging by his face, it was clear he did not. Nor did Mace Tyrell, who shot to his feet and stormed from the hall. Lyanna's stomach dropped as she realised what Rhaegar had done. He had broken ties with the Reach, insulted Lord Tyrell by refusing his daughter Jon's hand and as for how Lord Tarly would react to Daenerys being taken from him...

 _'Oh Rhaegar,'_ Lyanna thought with exasperated dread, _'What have you done?'_

The court had obviously caught onto Lyanna's line of thinking and were now furtively discussing the King's announcements from behind their goblets.

Lyanna's eyes sought Princess Elia and Ser Jaime. It was only the threat of their lives that kept Dorne and the Lannisters loyal. It would not bear thinking about if they were to lose that hold. A tired Princess Elia rose, wearied by the excitement and ready to make for bed. Along with her rose Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne.

As though sensing her gaze on her, Elia turned her head and met with Lyanna. That wretchedly courteous smile flickered on Elia's lips, and Lyanna resisted the urge to storm across the hall and gouge Elia's cow eyes from their sockets.

The sight of Elia was blocked by the cumbersome Lady Brienne. Ice flooded Lyanna's veins as she looked at her. All too well she remembered what happened the last time a rebellious daughter took up arms despite her father's will and fled from her family.

All too well she remembered what had happened when a heady girl foolishly thought to fight alongside men.

 


	11. Chapter 11

The rooms appointed to her were finer than any Brienne had ever known. Even finer than that of her Lord Father in Evenfall Hall. Brienne felt herself shrink under the grandeur. Jaime followed her in, looking around the room with vague contempt. Brienne quickly stifled her own reaction lest she come across as a green girl who had never set foot beyond her father's hall, which would naturally not do at all.

Even though she was.

“Well it's the best they could do at short notice,” he remarked, taking in the candlesticks; pewter instead of gold, before grinning ruefully, “And I suppose you aren't the royal family's favourite person right now,”

“I didn't expect the King nor the Queen to approve of what I did,” Brienne admitted, “But surely they couldn't protest too much? _I'm_ not married, I could honour the lady I please,”

Jaime chuckled “No one likes having their mistakes thrust in their faces, and certainly not in the faces of their court and subjects,”

“It will be worth their ire to have honoured Princess Elia,” Brienne told him.

Jaime's smile softened. “And I thank you for that,” he said almost gently, “Many would have backed out, milked the victory for themselves. Enjoyed the adulation and forget risking it by pissing off their Graces,”

“I would have lost any adulation the minute I showed myself to be a woman,” Brienne said bluntly.

“And you didn't think to keep up the guise?” Jaime persisted.

“I won that victory,” Brienne said with quiet vehemence, “I won it honourably, through skill and endurance. I accept that for now, the world shall begrudge my name for that victory and all victories to come. But they shall know it,”

Jaime slowly reached out and took Brienne's hand in his. Having been despised as the Kingslayer from seventeen, he knew all too well the value of names. “Of that I have no doubt,” he assured her, all levity drained from his voice.

Brienne stared at his hand on her own, burning red as a lobster. She swallowed and shook her head.

“Besides,” she added with a shrug, “I promised my brother I would bring honour to our family's name. I can hardly do that if I am living with a false one, can I?”

“You are close to your brother,?”

“He is my dearest friend,” she said fervently.

Jaime nodded in understanding. “I love my brother also, and my sister; though she wishes to have nothing to do with me. But my brother, you will have heard of him, the Imp. You will know how the world sees him, how our father sees him,” he shook his head as though trying to dislodge something unpleasant from his mind, “I have always been the one to protect him. To guard him fro our father, and my sister,” he admitted, “As well as near every being in the Rock,” Jaime let out a harsh bark of laughter, “Now I am forbidden to even write to him, offer him my love and comfort, let alone protection. Have you ever seen a lion more declawed than I?”

Brienne grasped Jaime's hand in comfort. “You are the heir to Casterly Rock,” she pointed out, “King Rhaegar shall have to release you someday. You will see your brother again,”

“And Seven knows what shall happen in the years before then,” Jaime hissed.

“I'm sorry,” Brienne told him, unable to say anything else “I truly am,”

Jaime sighed. “I know,” he smiled at her apologetically. Even a lion far from his pride was a lion, and liable to make the situation about him.“We should be celebrating your victory, discussing happier things. Tell me about your brother,”

“I love him more than anyone else in the world,” Brienne began, “I call him my dearest friend, in truth he is my only friend. When you grow to be as large and ugly as I, not even being the lord's daughter can protect you from the usual childhood cruelty. We used to quarrel all the time over who was the better fighter, but when our parents decided to send me to a Septry, he was the first to praise my skills and beg them to reconsider. And then when that did not work, he armed me and helped me to escape,”

“Is he the one who gave you this shield?” he asked, grabbing out the battered old shield, “It's in a right state. I understand wanting to honour your brother but I wish-” Jaime's eyes widened as he took in the shield. He outstretched his arms and examined it in wonder.

“This is Ser Duncan the Tall's sigil,” he murmured beneath his breath, “I have seen it in the White Book,”

“It was in my father's armoury,” Brienne explained, “Father never told us who it belonged to,”

“You must be a descendant,” Jaime said with growing excitement, “It would explain the height certainly,”

“Impossible!” Brienne snapped, “He was a member of the Kingsguard,”

“Aye, to the last truly good king of Westeros, and one of his bravest knights,” Jaime continued, near giddy with delight. There was almost something childlike in his smile. From the face of the grown man, the eyes of a green boy still delighted by songs of chivalry shone through.

“I wonder why Father never told us,” Brienne mused.

“To keep it under wraps? As you say, he was a member of the Kingsguard. If he is your ancestor then that makes him an oath-breaker,” Jaime reasoned.

“Not so honourable after all then,” Brienne said bitterly, suddenly dirtied by the prospect of being descended from and carrying the sigil of an oath-breaker, “He broke his vows to his king!”

“I'm sure he had his reasons,” Jaime said reassuringly.

“What possible reasons could he have?” Brienne spat.

Jaime's face turned grave, the lines around his mouth taut and sour. “A man can have many reasons to break his oath,” he said flatly.

Brienne paused, before turning to meet his eye. “The only thing more wretched than a kingslayer is a kinslayer. They were his grandchildren-”

“And they were innocents,” Jaime cut in, “Most of all they were innocents. Even if they were not his grandchildren, if they were just the two children of a butcher or a cobbler, should I have stood by and allowed them to die?”

Brienne was silent.

“Brienne,” Jaime said, his voice warmer, “You wish to be a knight don't you?”

Brienne nodded slowly.

“Then you need to learn that you cannot do everything nobly. Because your enemies will not. Sometimes you have to cheat, get your hands dirty,” Jaime told her earnestly.

“I'm not sure I can,” Brienne admitted, staring at her large calloused hands.

“I can help you?” Jaime offered.

Brienne peered at him suspiciously. “How?”

Jaime's lips twitched up into a sly grin. “Before anyone can become a knight, they must become something else first,”

“And what is that?” Brienne asked doubtfully.

“A squire!” Jaime announced.

“Y-you would have me be your squire?” Brienne repeated, “You would teach me-keep on teaching me, to fight with a sword and wield a lance?”

“All that,” Jaime nodded, “And I will teach you just how worthless those codes about oathkeeping and chivalry you hold dear truly are. I can play at giving out flowers at tournaments and keeping to the niceties of battle as well as any man,” he said dismissively, “But when you have something truly worth fighting for, you must be willing to break the rules”

Brienne frowned at that. She could not agree that chivalry and codes of honour were worthless, and she knew that no length of time under Ser Jaime's jaded tutelage was going to change that. Those codes meant something. Surely it was better to fight with honour? To look a man in the eye rather than stab him in the back, to remain loyal and to keep ones promises. Those rules were there for a reason.

However, Brienne was willing to concede that sometimes, that reason was for them to be broken.

 


	12. Chapter 12

No Tyrell was to leave the city. Lord Mace, his daughter and all the other roses that had been sprouting up like weeds in the court were kept to their chambers under armed guard. With the match between Jon and Lady Margaery called off, and Rhaegar demanding Princess Daenerys to leave her husband and return to him, it was only the imprisonment of the Tyrells that kept the Reach from storming on King's Landing.

Lyanna was grateful that her husband at least had the sense to keep the Tyrells as hostages.

Naturally, they were afforded every privilege, treated as honoured guests in everything but they were not allowed to leave. But even these privileges were not enough to soothe their tempers. Lord Mace Tyrell blustered whilst his youngest son Loras; who had dazzled in the tourney, swore and cursed. Most frighteningly of all, Margaery Tyrell and her shrewish grandmother kept quiet.

Lyanna shuddered to think of what they were scheming.

Although the proud Lord Mace refused to attend Jon's departure, at Lady Olenna's insistence Lady Margaery was escorted by her brother. The lovely young maid watched dolefully as her 'Lost Prince', as the court had taken to calling him, sailed from the horizon. She was playing a part; of course, but she played it so prettily and with such charm one could not help but be moved.

Lyanna; on the other hand, struggled greatly with her role. Instead of a proud queen, standing elegant and dignified with only a single tear silently rolling down her cheeks, she choked and blubbered and had to keep wiping her face in her black velvet sleeves.

Beside her,Rhaegar watched without a trace of despair or dread. He had been guided down this course by fate, so he believed, and in sending their only son into unknown dangers Rhaegar could see naught but cause for celebration.

Lyanna hated him for it, but she was also gratified. She knew that if she were to push him for her request, she should do so now.

Jon's ship far past the horizon, the royal party turned back to begin the journey to the Red Keep. Taking a deep breath and swallowing the last of her tears, Lyanna turned to her husband.

“With the Reach angered,” she began tactfully, “I believe it would be best if we tried to foster good relations with the North once more,”

Rhaegar was silent, which Lyanna took for encouragement to go on.

“And so,” she continued, “I think it is time that I visited Winterfell, and my brother. Remind him of the bonds of family that join us and-”

“It will be too dangerous,” Rhaegar cut her off bluntly, “Too many would aspire to take you as you travelled,”

“I am well aware of that,” Lyanna told him patiently, “I had thought to travel in disguise, with little ceremony. We could give out that I am ill or have been sent elsewhere,”

That way, Ned would never know that she was coming until after she had arrived. He may refuse her permission to visit, but he would not turn her away once she had reached the gates of Winterfell. Not with the roads so treacherous. Not her Ned

Lyanna closed her eyes and savoured the image. She could almost see Winterfell now. It's old familiar grey walls, the Godswood with the true Weirwood trees. The stables where she had kept the first horse she learned to ride on. The courtyards where she had played with her brothers, Father watching them with a warm smile on his grave face.

Although Father would not be there, nor Brandon. And neither Ned or Benjen would be willing to smile at her once more.

Even so, she longed for Winterfell. She longed for home. She would have a hard time leaving.

Maybe she never would.

“It's not up for discussion,” Rhaegar told her, “With no sigil and five men at arms, or an entire army to escort you, it's far too dangerous,”

“It would not be so dangerous if you had not pissed off the Lords of the Reach!” Lyanna hissed, “First breaking off Jon's proposal to Lady Margaery, and wedding both he and Prince Viserys to Princess Daenerys, she is married!”

“Betrothals can be broken and marriages can be annulled,” Rhaegar told Lyanna darkly, “As well you know,” he turned his face from her and stared down at the road before him, “The Dragon must have three heads,”

#

Elia had watched the procession arrive back at the Red Keep. She had decided against going, and also turned down accompanying Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne to the courtyards to watch them spar. Instead she had elected to use the time to seek out an audience with the Maester, to ensure his original prognosis had been correct.

She had hidden the cough and constant shivers away from her companions. Having learned since childhood that as a sickly young girl, if she wished to stay up and play with her brother it was best to smother any coughs or sneezes.

But soon there would be no chance for hiding. Her health was failing her with each passing day, and soon what little she possessed would be desert her completely. She had to make he request now before it was too late.

Rhaegar rode at the head of the procession, alongside the Stark girl. Queen Lyanna had a face like thunder. Another argument, Elia noted. But Rhaegar seemed untouched, swept up in the ecstasy of having sent his son to do his duty.

Even after all these years, Elia could recognise Rhaegar's moods and saw this was the closest Rhaegar would ever being in a good one. She brushed out her hair and dressed in a shimmering gown of yellow silk, before sending her request to receive an audience with him.

Elia had never asked to speak with him before. Clearly Rhaegar's curiosity at the request was great, for she summoned to Rhaegar's study immediately.

Rhaegar awaited her with Lyanna, who regarded Elia with her customary dislike. Elia knew Lyanna disdained Elia for her supposed meekness and lack of spirit. No doubt that was easier than feeling any empathy for the woman she displaced.

Elia prayed that Lyanna could be moved to feel some for her today.

She sunk to her knees in a graceful curtsey, remaining before the King until Rhaegar took her hand in his and raised her up.

“My King,” Elia began formally, “I have news I must relay to you, and a request,”

Rhaegar nodded respectfully. “Go on,”

“I am afraid that I am not long for this world,” Elia said, “The Maester has confirmed that my heart and lungs are failing. He cannot confirm how long I have left but I shall not live another year,”

Rhaegar swallowed and blinked. “I am grieved to hear this,” he told her, “And I shall do whatever I can to ensure your comfort in these final months,”

“In which case I humbly beseech you to allow me to return to Dorne, so that I may die having seen my brothers and my homeland once more,” Elia concluded.

Rhaegar shook his head. “You must understand why this is impossible,” he told her.

Here Elia looked Rhaegar in the eyes, desperation creeping into her voice.

“Rhaegar,” she said quietly, “I have never begged anything from you before. But now I must plead with you, for any fondness you once held for me, and the love we both bore our children, I am begging you now. Let me go home,”

Lyanna was disgusted to see tears in Rhaegar's eyes at Elia's display. Her husband had forbidden her own request with barely a look.

For her own part, Princess Elia took Rhaegar's rejection far too calmly. Surely she should scream and shout at such a response? To be so heartless could not be human. Despite her ire at her husband, Lyanna felt a stirring of pity for Rhaegar, to be wed to such a cold-hearted woman. After all, he was a dragon, and needed wife of strength and fire to match.

How could a woman such as Elia come from a place renowned for its heat and passion like Dorne? But then maybe it made sense for a woman coming from the land of snakes, cold blooded.

Instead of crying and begging and fighting as she should have done, Elia removed herself silently.

Lyanna felt herself be angered by the sympathy on Rhaegar's face. Lyanna had given everything up for him. _She_ was his wife and mother of his only child.

And yet Elia still held a part of Rhaegar's heart through nothing more than looking sad and pitiful. And the people as well. It was sickening how their hearts went out to that feeble, pathetic woman, but for Lyanna; their Queen, they held nothing but contempt and openly reviled her.

“I could not send Elia to Dorne,” Rhaegar told Lyanna, a repulsive tinge of regret to his voice, “The political climate would not allow such a thing,”

Lyanna nodded. “I agree,” she said simply.

 


	13. Chapter 13

Jaime's face was red and dripping with sweat. His muscles were sore and bruised but his heart was singing. Brienne had landed some viscous blows which had sent him arse over head. He beamed as he caught sight of Princess Elia waiting for him. He strolled towards her and took her hand in his, kissing it with a smile.

“Princess Elia,” he said, “How are you?”

Elia gave him a small smile and tucked her hand in his. “Not well I fear,” she told him, “Would you be willing to escort me to my chambers?”

The smile slipped from Jaime's face and he nodded tightly. He led Elia to her sun splashed chambers and sat beside her. Her rooms were south facing, the brightest in the castle. Rhaegar had decency enough to ensure that.

This had been back when Rhaegar had first ascended to the throne and was eagerly playing the part of High King. In the years that had since passed; with no more children coming forth and the Three Headed Dragon seeming further and further form his reach, Rhaegar had grown somewhat less obliging. He devoted himself to the prophecy and shunned everything else.

But on his arrival back at the Red Keep, Rhaegar had desired to appear as different from his father as possible, to be seen as kind and fair and generous. Keeping his cast aside wife imprisoned in the same castle she had witnessed their children be murdered rather opposed that image and so Rhaegar sought to do everything to bring Elia comfort.

Like a flower; he had declared, Elia would wilt and decay in the dark and cold.

Elia cared little for the analogy but it ensured her rooms faced the sun and so she kept her mouth shut.

Elia nodded at her maids to depart, and they did so unwillingly. No doubt hovering behind the door. Jaime went to pour her a glass of watered wine, only for her to reach out and still his hand.

“I think I am going to need something a bit stronger,” she said, “There is some Dornish Red,”

Jaime poured them both copious glasses, spilling droplets as the bottle slid in his sweating hands, and pushed Elia's goblet towards her. He watched her down the goblet in one, gulping down a surprisingly large amount of wine for such a small woman.

Jaime could not help but be perturbed by Elia's lack of composure. Her usual grace and dignity replaced by a sudden urgency. Only something truly serious could cause Princess Elia of Dorne to break face, even before him.

“Elia,” he asked tenderly, doing away with all forms of formality, “What is wrong?”

Elia sighed and placed her goblet back down, eyes shut.

“I am afraid that I must tell you; dear friend, that I do not have long left in this world,” she told him, her usually melodic voice hoarse and strained.

Jaime blinked. He listened to those words over and over, trying to find a meaning other than that one that had gripped a hold of his heart in a clammy grip.

“Elia-” he began, placing his own hand over Elia's in a gesture of comfort. He sought for words that could bring her solace, but none were yielded up.

“It is my heart,” she explained, “And my lungs. I have been feeling weaker for a while now, though I had not wished to admit it,”

“Is the Maester certain?” Jaime demanded, “Is there nothing he can do?”

Elia shook her head. “He said recovery is unlikely,” she informed him, “And that I had best begin to make my peace with the Seven,”

“Have you told anyone else?”

“I have told the King, and requested that he send me back home to live out my final days in Dorne,” Elia admitted.

“Surely he cannot have refused you that?” Jaime said desperately. Elia gave him a small, sad smile that had Jaime shaking his head in incredulity.

“This is madness,” he muttered, raking his hand through his hair, “After all he has done to you, he cannot grant you this one thing? The bastard!”

“My thoughts entirely,” Elia agreed pleasantly.

Jaime slumped into his chair. “He cannot keep you from Dorne,”

Elia lowered her voice, lest the lingering maids overhear. “On that,” Elia told Jaime, “We are completely of one mind,”

#

“Ser Jaime!” Brienne shrieked, yanking at a sheet to provide some covering, “I was washing,”

The recently vacated bathwater was tinged with the mud and grime of the training yards, and Brienne's butchered hair lay damp against her scalp.

“You women,” Jaime tutted, shaking his head, “You are for too fastidious about your cleanliness. And your modesty. There shall be no room for that if you wish to become a knight,”

Brienne narrowed her eyes as she ducked behind a screen and tugged on her shift and a robe. The words were Jaime's but his manner was not. He lacked his usual mirth and his jape felt obligatory.

“Why did you not have maids keeping guard?” Jaime enquired, having already made himself comfortable at her small table.

“I sent the maid away,” Brienne explained, “I did not desire nor need her help to bathe,”

She sat before him, growing more concerned the more she examined his face. It was lined and aged, yet his eyes burned with an bitter vitality.

“What has happened?” she asked urgently, words tripping over the other, “Is there news of your brother? Your sister or..or my family?”

Jaime held his hand up to put an end to Brienne's rapid questioning.

“None that I am aware of ,” he said bluntly, “It is the Princess Elia,”

“What of her?” Brienne persisted, “Is anything the matter?”

“You could say as much,” Jaime laughed humourlessly, “She's dying,”

Brienne slumped back into her seat.

“The poor lady,” Brienne said softly, “Please tell her, if there is anything that I could do for her...”

Jaime's face creased into a smile. “I was rather hoping you would say that,” he told her, “Because there is in fact something you can do,”

Brienne nodded. “Anything,” she promised, “What would you have me do?”

Jaime leant forward, glancing over his shoulder and looking into Brienne's eyes conspiratorially. “Remember what I told you about being a knight? And how it requires sometimes breaking the rules?”

  
  


 


	14. Chapter 14

Ser Arthur Dayne had escorted them to the meeting point. Elia raised an eyebrow on seeing Rhaegar's devoted guard bow before her, Lady Brienne at his side, her pockets weighed down with her winnings. For a moment she had feared they were discovered and Ser Arthur had arrived to place her under guard.

Instead he proffered her his arm and wordlessly led her down to the dank crypts, shaking his head when she tried to question him. “Ser Jaime sent me,” was all he would say.

Only Lady Brienne's reassuring nod allowed Elia to trust the knight.

It was only once they had emerged out into the open, the crashing of the waves drowning out their voices, that were explanations offered.

“Ser Arthur,” Elia said coldly, “You must forgive my surprise on finding you hear. I had not thought you would be willing to go against your King,”

Ser Arthur watched her silently, before sinking tremulously to his knees.

For years he had stood by, serving one king after another. He watched King Aerys rape his wife and beat his children. He watched him murder innocents. He helped Rhaegar escape with Lyanna to the Tower of Joy and guarded them as they dishonoured Elia, desecrating their homeland. He abandoned her, his Princess, and her children and left them vulnerable to the cruelty of the Mad King. For too long he hid behind his vows and allowed others to suffer.

Just this once, he needed to do the right thing.

“I am King Rhaegar's loyal servant,” he announced, “And I would willingly lay down my life for him,” he raised his head to look Elia in the eye, “But I am a Dornishman also. Allow me to do this small a service it is,”

Elia extended her hand and helped him to rise.

“It is no small thing,” she told him earnestly “And I thank you for it,”

Ser Arthur bowed once more, before swiftly stealing away into the knight before his absence be discovered by his brothers at arms.

The two ladies stood silently, bracing themselves against the cold. Spittle from the sea flecked their cheeks as they waited on the jagged rocks. Elia tried to cough discretely, only to end up hacking into forward violently.

Brienne watched Princess Elia with growing concern. The Princess was swathed in a thick black woollen cloak and still she shivered constantly in the frigid night air. Swimming in in the heavy cloak Elia looked even smaller than usual, the bones jutting through so sharply that it seemed one heavy shiver would have her skeleton break through her skin.

“Are you sure you are strong enough my lady?” Brienne asked tentatively.

Elia's dark eyes flickered impatiently. It seemed half the conversations she had held through her life were people doubting her health. She looked at the Lady Brienne's fine muscular form and wondered what it must be like to never have your body fail you. She watched Brienne's stride and the effortless way she carried supplies on her back, muscles barely straining. It all came naturally to her, she never grew out of breath walking up the stairs or woke up not knowing whether simply getting out of bed would be too agonising for her.

“I could not have survived this far without having some strength,” Elia pointed out at last, “And I am a Martell. Unbowed, Unbent and Unbroken,”

Brienne nodded, raising no more objections. Elia smiled at Lady Brienne's swift acceptance. The two women fell in companionable silence, staring out at the waves.

“What has Jaime told you about me?” Elia asked Brienne suddenly, “About my person, I mean, not my circumstance,”

“He said you are a good and gracious lady,” Brienne replied, “Who is able to find joy and a kindness within despite the many hardships that life has thrown at you. He admires you greatly,”

“I am aware he does,” Elia acknowledged wryly,

After being disgraced by Rhaegar, Elia rather enjoyed being on a pedestal. And so she could not bear to rob Jaime of that view.

True, she was kind. Very kind indeed. Every action she took was carefully measured to place herself in the best possible light. Because with every good deed she did, the worst it made Rhaegar and Lyanna look. The greater the shadow she threw over them. She was even capable of making Rhaegar feel guilty on occasion. Elia laughed inwardly. It was no mean feat to make a man who believed his every move was guided by the Gods feel guilty. But Elia did it.

They were small, petty victories. But when you are unable to beat those who have hurt you into the ground you must take what victories you can.

Ever since Elia was born, everyone expected her to die. And when she lost her children many thought she was better off doing so. And even though a part of her agreed, she could not let herself make it easy for them. She would _not_ just disappear and spare everyone the awkwardness of her continued existence. And though she would have loved to say she survived solely through being a good and strong person; the angel Ser Jaime thought she was, there were many a times when spite as the only thing that kept her going.

When love and and strength failed her, Elia lived a life fuelled only by hate. But she _lived._

Elia looked at Lady Brienne, with her guileless blue eyes and wondered what the lady would say should she show the candid truth of herself. Reveal just how much bitterness lurked inside. Elia thought of the kindness Lady Brienne had showed in naming her Queen of Love and Beauty and knew she could never risk the Lady Brienne thinking ill of her. The tragically sweet facade was all the Princess possessed to make people love her.

And Elia so longed to be loved.

“I wish to thank you once more,” Elia said at last, “For crowning me at the tourney. When all the word is incapable of seeing you as anything other than some weak, sickly thing, you could not understand what it meant to me,”

Brienne paused, digesting Elia's thanks.

“Ever since I was a child, the world thought me worthless,” Brienne said, struggling for words. “Because I was large, and ugly and graceless. So I think I understand better than you would expect,”

They shared smiles. These two women. One fair and the other ugly . One too large and one too small. One too weak and one too strong, and yet the same.

“Ser Jaime,” Brienne whispered as a familiar figure emerged form the dark, hauling the final supplies with him. Food, water, bandages, canvas for a tent and Milk of the Poppy.

He gave Brienne a firm grasp on the shoulder and nodded to Elia.

“This is your last chance to turn back, this night will make traitors of all of us,” he asked as he and Brienne helped Elia over the stones and into the fisherman's boat that sat bobbing in the sea, “Are you truly ready to go?”

Elia nodded, now trembling from something other than cold.

“I have been ready for a _long_ time,” she assured him, “Treason or no,”

 


	15. Chapter 15

Treason. Treason. Treason.

Brienne could feel that one word rattle around in the empty cavern of her mind, carried in every ripple of water and howl of the wind. Running away and terrifying her parents and snubbing the King and his Queen in front of the entire court was one thing.

But aiding in the escape of King Rhaegar's most valuable hostages was another matter entirely.

At best Brienne would be cast directly into the King's disfavour, at worst she would drag her family along with her. Caught up in the rush of escape, Brienne thought of little else than getting safely away from King's Landing. But as they rowed further and further away, the magnitude of what they had just done settled onto Brienne's shoulders. The seed of doubt planted in her stomach the day she left her shield behind and fled the Red Keep blossomed.

 _'Stupid, stupid girl,'_ she cursed inwardly, _'Foolish, selfish girl,'_

It was Jaime's turn to row. He glanced up and took note of the tautness of Brienne's jaw and the sickly pallor of her skin.

“Stick your head over the side if you're going to vomit,” he ordered, “We're going to be in this boat for a long time,”

“I'm not going to be sick,” Brienne said stiffly.

Elia frowned in concern.

“What is wrong?” she asked.

“Will Rhaegar hurt my family?” she said at last, “When he finds out what I have done?”

“I doubt it,” Jaime assured her, “I know your father to be a respected lord. And the Stormlands are spoiling for a rumble. Connington may be Lord Paramount and still ludicrously loyal, but his grip is weak. With Elia and I gone, his alliance with the Reach broken and shat on, he's hardly in a position to be picking fights,”

“And Rhaegar has come to consider such business beneath him,” Elia added, “If it is not a battle between humanity and the undead, he is not interested,”

“Such trivialities are below his sacred self,” Jaime concluded.

He and Elia exchanged smirks, but Brienne continued staring pensively out at the waves.

“Here,” Jaime said, “It's your turn to row,”

Brienne accepted the oars eagerly, anxious for a distraction.

They took turns rowing, the days shifting into night and night into day. Island born Brienne had been learning to sail as soon as she could walk, and had been taught how to place oneself through mapping the stars. Jaime sought to entertain himself and his friends; but mostly himself, by singing the most vulgar and irritating songs of his extensive repertoire. This caused Brienne to alternate between asking, begging and threatening him with violence to make him stop.

Occasionally she tried for a dignified silence, to show he was not getting a rise out of her. This lasted about as long as it took for him to bellow out the first line of 'The Dornishman's Wife' in a voice that was as obnoxious as it was off-key.

Elia was wearied by the journey, and they had to use the Milk of the Poppy sparingly. Even so she joined in with Jaime's singing with much zest and vigour, delighting in watching Brienne struggle with her natural chivalry and mounting desire to see the both of them drowned.

Or eaten by sharks.

It was only when; during a lull, that Brienne regaled them both with the memories of the time a body had been swept ashore that the two finally held their tongues. The flush on her Brienne's cheeks and the vein on her forehead was amusement enough, and it kept Elia distracted from the aches of her muscles and the dry, hacking cough.

After Brienne's rather vivid descriptions of the way the corpse had been bloated, it's face warped and eye bulging, both felt prudent to keep their mouths shout whether the threat of sea sickness came to fruition.

Three days had passed on the choppy waters until the travellers caught sight of Tarth. Elia had dozed off in the evening sun , and so only Jaime took note of the way Brienne stared over to her homeland.

“Well,” he said blithely, skimming his hand in the sea's surface, “The waters are pretty enough, although I would say calling them _sapphire is_ something of a stretch,”

Brienne just humphed in response, her shoulders stiff and taut.

“I suppose the poets cannot help but make grandiose comparisons,” Jaime continued, “But whatever is wrong with waters which are slightly bluer than most?”

“Nothing will rhyme with that,” Brienne pointed out flatly, “And nor will it fit any sort of meter,”

Jaime nodded, conceding to Brienne's point. “It does look beautiful at night,” he admitted, “With the moonlight on the cliffs and that stars in the sea. Reminds me of home,”

Brienne turned her back on him once more, watching the island tauntingly sail past.

Jaime tentatively drew closer, placing a hand on Brienne's shoulder.

“We can drop you off,” he offered, “We will miss your company, but if you wish to return home then we understand. Neither Elia nor I would wish you to continue if it will only make you unhappy,”

“I can't,” Brienne said, shaking her head.

“Well it would probably add an extra day or so to the journey,” Jaime said flippantly, “And my arms will be near falling off once we get to Dorne, but I'm sure we will manage,”

“It is kind of you to off, but no,” Brienne reiterated.

“It's not a kindness,” Jaime insisted, “Your devotion to Princess Elia and I is highly flattering. It will be a blow to both our egos should you come to resent us,”

Brienne turned to face him. Jaime saw something burn bright and fast in Brienne's eyes. Not longing, nor temptation. More a sudden horror, as though the thought of going back to her Sapphire Isles pained her.

“I refuse to go back,” Brienne said vehemently, “Not now. I made a promise to my brother to bring glory to our family name. And I made a promise to myself that I would bring honour to mine,” she added softly.

“You have already won the King's Tourney,” Jaime said, “Would that not be enough?”

Brienne shook her head resolutely. “It is not enough that I show off and look good. I must _do_ some good,”

Jaime sat silently, giving her a slight nod when it seemed she was waiting for him to permit her to continue.

“I have had five betrothals,” she admitted, “Five betrothals and no weddings. I am mocked; and by extension my family is mocked, because no man would willingly have me. I have to wake up every and see the face I don't like. A face I hate and a person behind it who I hate even more,” Brienne spat, “And I am sick of seeing that face. Best it hide behind helm,” she said resolutely, “For if I cannot prove myself a woman, then I shall prove myself a knight,”

Jaime took her in. She was gazing straight out at the horizon before her, with eyes so blue that Jaime relinquished his hatred of grandiose statement and allowed them to be sapphires. Her head was erect and fists were clenched. She was a maiden bathed in moonlight, blazing sharp and silver.

“I think you could prove yourself to be both,” he said.

And then he kissed her.

 


	16. Chapter 16

The sea was both the best and worst thing about King's Landing.

Lyanna had never seen the sea before fleeing with Rhaegar, and even the brackish waters of Blackwater Bay held wonder and enchantment. That great expanse of water which connected all land and people and adventure.

It was the promise of a freedom lost to Lyanna, now more than ever.

Even so she wiled away the hours, eyes fixed on the horizon and waiting for a glimmer of the black sails. She was like a trapped maiden in tower from one of those saccharine songs she had despised as a girl. Except for when Rhaegar sang those songs. For a moment, Rhaegar managed to make even being locked in a tower seem appealing. Magical.

The reality was less magical more tedious. It mostly involved a lot of sitting around, waiting in terror for the news that another loved one had died.

And now Lyanna was back there again, desperately pleading to whatever God that listened to send Jon home to her. To reconcile Ned to her. To keep the Kingdom from tearing itself apart.

Lyanna stepped back from the window, grimacing at the mess before her. Her stomach was a constant squirming nest of worms. Her eyes were red from countless sleepless nights fretting over Jon, her hair was on end from constantly running her fingers through it. In desperation for news Lyanna traipsed to Rhaegar's study.

She would find little comfort in her husband, and would no doubt be a most unwelcome visitor. The Silver King did not relish having his ever increasing harridan of a wife constantly chiding his ear off over the Reach debacle.

Any more chastisement might have been liable to making him see sense. And that would have been a tragedy indeed.

“Beg your pardon your Grace,” Ser Barristan said formally, “But the King has requested no one be admitted, he has important business to attend to,”

“By 'important business' do you mean plucking at his harp and writing bad poetry?”

Ser Barristan exchanged uneasy glances with his fellow guard.

“I cannot say your Grace,” he said at last.

From behind the door came the sound of a harp being played. Lyanna rolled her eyes.

“If he wanted to attend to important business, he could work on flattering Lord Mace Tyrell and try to avoid war with the Reach. The Reach and just about every other kingdom in Westeros,” she muttered, “Just let me through,” she said brusquely, storming past and scraping open the door.

Rhaegar sat by the window, strumming dolefully by the window.

“Lord Tarly has refused to release Daenerys,” he informed Lyanna without looking up, “I may have to start executing the Tyrell hostages,”

Lyanna swallowed down her request that he start with Margaery Tyrell and shook her head.

“You can't do that!” she protested, “It will mean war for certainty,”

“No war matters than that between the-”

“The living and the dead,” Lyanna cut in, “Yes, I _know._ But if continue the way you are, your people will be the dead and you will be sparing all those Grumpkins and Snarks heading our way a job,”

Rhaegar ignored her and continued playing his harp. Lyanna winced and forced a smile to her face. She knelt down beside Rhaegar, skirts billowing, and clutched his hand.

“My love,” she said in a winsome voice, “As you said, marriages can be annulled. If there comes a time when it becomes apparent that a marriage between Daenerys, Viserys and Jon is vital, then we will take the necessary steps. Until then, there is little point in angering the Lords of the Reach,” Lyanna pointed out reasonably, spitting out the next words in distaste, “and we may as well allow Jon's marriage to Lady Margaery,”

Rhaegar stared at her with violet eyes, mulling her words over in his head.

“It will mean making vows before the Gods with no intention to keep them,” Rhaegar said doubtfully.

Lyanna resisted the urge to shake him until his teeth rattled. _Now_ he cared about breaking vows made before the Gods.

“I am sure the Gods will understand,” she said patiently, “If Westeros is to survive the oncoming war, the realm must stand united,”

Rhaegar's fingers hovered over the strings of his harp.

“I will think on it,” he said at last.

Lyanna stifled a groan of annoyance. At least Rhaegar was _thinking,_ which suggested some progress. And with luck; Lyanna prayed, the day for their Jon and Daenerys's marriages to be broken may never come. The war of the dead may truly be Rhaegar's delusions, or else the three heads of the dragon may in fact belong to the actual three heads of the dragons Jon was risking his life to bring West.

“Is there any news of Jon?” Lyanna asked hopefully, finally reaching the question she had been aching to ask.

Rhaegar looked up at her with disinterest.

“There has not,” he informed her, before resuming his harp playing. His eyes were blank and voice neutral.

Lyanna stared at him, this was not the face of the man she had fallen in love with.

This was the face of the man who had refused to let her leave the Tower of Joy on telling her of her father and brother's death. Lyanna had seen that face again at the gates of King's Landing. When he had responded to the murders of Rhaenys and Aegon with a mere nod to the head, Jon just a sleeping babe in Lyanna's arms.

She dropped a shallow curtsey and made to go when a timid knock came at the door.

“Enter!” Rhaegar cried.

A nervous page shuffled in an dropped a bow, parchment clutched in his hand.

“A letter your Grace,” he mumbled, “From Lord Eddard Stark, to Queen Lyanna,”

Lyanna's heart leapt, thudding painfully beneath her tight satin bodice. Ned had written. Her Ned, at long last he had replied to her letters. Fear and hope and doubt and elation waged war in her stomach. She reached out her hand to take the letter, only for Rhaegar to snatch it from her grasp.

He scanned the letter, a disappointed sneer forming on his lips.

“Anything of import?” she demanded.

“No,” Rhaegar said disdainfully, allowing the letter to flutter to the ground.

Lyanna caught it and smoothed out the creases, treasuring the parchment against her chest. She fled past the page and the guards, hands trembling.

He wrote to say he prayed for her son, that he knelt before the Weirwood trees in the Godswood each day and begged for the safety of his nephew.

 _'And for you as well, my sister,'_ the letter ended.

Lyanna savoured those words, reading them over and over. 'My sister', he had called her. She was of his pack once more, his little Lya. Those few words had brought Lyanna the salvation she did not know she had been looking for.

The Gods had heard her prayers. Not the Seven, those new Gods of the South. But the ones that had watched over her since birth, the ones she thought had turned had their back on her.

The ones she had turned her back on.

Ever since Ned had ridden North, leaving her wretched with guilt in this Southern Kingdom, she had avoided the Godswood like the plague. But now, Lyanna returned to her chambers and with the help on her maids changed from her stiff red satin gown into one of light grey wool. The cloth was soft and cool against her chafed skin.

She dismissed her ladies with a polite nod, and descended to the Godswood. There, under the sky and amongst the trees, she gave the Gods her thanks. She thanked them for returning Ned to her, and begged them to keep Jon safe, and give her the wisdom from plunging the kingdom into war once more.

Lyanna did not know how long she had been in prayer, but when she stood at last her knees were rough and red from kneeling and the sun was low in the sky. Immediately on leaving the Godswood , she was accosted by a minor lord of the Crownlands. He had heard where she was and spent the entire afternoon waiting for her, hoping for a chance to beg her favours.

He walked beside her; wringing his hands, and whining on about a neighbouring lord edging across the border and onto his lands. Lyanna listened to his complaints with half an ear, her good humour waning rapidly.

“And the lands he is encroaching on are particularly fertile,” he complained, “Many of my smallfolk need it for farming. Without it, they have no guarantee to harvest enough before winter. They may very well starve!”

Starve.

Lyanna paused in her steps, cursing her own selfishness. Dull as this might be, it mattered. This was what was expected from her as queen, what was needed of her. To deny him now would be to throw her God's blessings back into their faces. She painted a gracious smile onto her face and placed and friendly hand on the lord's arm.

“Accompany me to my solar,” she offered, “And we will discuss the matter there,”

Dull as this might be, it mattered. To deny him now would be to throw her God's blessings back into their faces. This was what was expected from her as queen, and more, what was needed of her.

  
  


 


	17. Chapter 17

Sudden storms drove them to the beaches of Estermont. Brienne had caught sight of the sky, steel grey and scowling down on them, and swiftly rowed the boat to shore. They landed just as the heavens opened and rain collapsed upon them. Between the three of them they were able to drag their boat and rapidly dwindling supplies to a small cave, just far and high enough to avoid the tide.

Within the cave Jaime and Brienne were able to concoct some form of shelter by blocking the entrance of the cave, using their upturned boat and canvas which fought to take flight in the violent wind. Elia shuddered beneath, wrapped in cloaks, while Brienne and Jaime futilely searched for some dry wood to make a fire.

Soaked to the skin and weary to the bone, Brienne shook her head in defeat.

“It's hopeless!” she called, her voice smothered by the din of the wind and the rain. Jaime could barely hear, but he caught the message from the look on Brienne's face, rain weeping down her cheeks.

He nodded and took Brienne's frozen hand in his own in a pointless attempt to warm her up. They trudged back to the cave, to find Elia still awake and hunched over a small pile of wood and cloth, rubbing two pieces of flint together.

“Where did you find that?” Jaime asked, nodding at the makeshift fire.

“I tore one of my spare dresses,” Elia explained, “And my cloak had some wooden toggles,”

“Clever,” Brienne wedged herself in beside her, Jaime joining her.

The flint slipped through Elia's trembling hands, but she eventually managed to capture a spark and a small, weak fire lit up. Brienne and Jaime stretched out their numb hands, greedily clutching at the flickering heat provided by Elia's fire.

“You should change,” Elia ordered, “Y-your clothes are so-soaked thr-” she broke into a fit of coughing, more violent even then usual. Rasping and painfully panting for breath, Elia turned her watering eyes away.

Not mentioning the fit, Brienne and Jaime dutifully changed their clothes.

The cave was dark and Brienne could barely see Jaime in the light of the fire, only glimpses of his handsome profile perfect muscles. Brienne remembered the press of Jaime's lips against her own and swallowed, before allowing Jaime to draw her in for warmth. Throwing all thoughts of modesty and propriety to the raging wind, she turned to face him and accepted a swift kiss. She had always sought the dark embrace of caves to hide away from her fears, doubts and inhibtions included.

Elia smirked at the sight of them, resting her head on Brienne's shoulder.

“I know you too have become quite friendly,” she told them, “But please remember that there is a dying woman trying to sleep here,”

#

It was a hard night. Especially for Elia, forced to sleep on hard ground and awaking every hour to cough. They were down to their final drops of Milk of the Poppy, and when the rain had sufficiently lightened the next morning Brienne was forced to venture to the village to gather more supplies.

The journey took nearly a day, and upon her return Brienne found that Elia's usual composure had all but vanished and she lay weeping in a desperate Jaime's arms.

“Thank the Gods,” he whispered on seeing her, “Have you got Milk of the Poppy?”

Brienne nodded, opening her sack full of food and flasks of well water and ale.

“How long until it is safe to set sail?” Elia asked, frantic to resume their journey.

“A week at least,” Brienne said, “Maybe two,”

It was then Elia let out a wail, heartbroken and utterly without hope. It pierced into Brienne and Jaime's stomachs and echoed through the hollow cave.

Elia struggled from Jaime's grip, propping herself up against the stone walls with matchstick arms, gasping and weeping.

“I am never going home,” she declared, pressing her hot forehead against the cool cave, sobbing and cursing, “I shall never see Dorne again. Never see my _brothers_ again. Not Doran, not Oberyn... Oberyn,”

Brienne shook her head, imagining never seeing Galladon once more, and turned to Elia with pleading eyes.

“Don't say that,” she begged, “You must try to stay hopeful,”

Elia let out a harsh, broken bark of laughter. “What do you think I have been doing these last years?” she mocked incredulously, “If not _staying hopeful?”_ she scoffed, punching the wall with a fist so tightly clenched it seemed the sharp bones would slice through the skin, “That stinking city has been suffocating me for years, all the while I have battled every day to _stay hopeful_. I struggled through, determined to live and see things get better and where did it lead me? Here! Dying in this _fucking_ cave!”

Elia laughed hysterically, wrapping pressing her hand against bony chest.

“Dying,” she repeated, “After all these years, I am dying. Finally. At long last I am giving everyone what they wanted. Did you know, ever since I was born everyone was waiting for me to die? My mother, Doran. Neither expected me to live. And then Rhaegar and Lyanna and every damn Maester whose poked and prodded at me with their shrivelled, spotted hands,” she thrust a trembling finger into Jaime's face and spat, “Your father! Your sister even. All have been waiting on the edge of their seats, begging me to die. Well now I am! I will die, far from home and never to see those I love again. At long last!”

Elia slid to the ground, panting and sobbing from pain.

Jaime and Brienne eyed her cautiously, as though she were a caged beast. Brienne shook her head and reached for her vial of Milk of the Poppy. Jaime sat beside Elia and rubbed her back soothingly whilst Brienne helped Elia guide the vial to her throat.

They all sat in a silence as the medicine took effect, helping to ease a wearied Elia into a fitful slumber.

Before she drifted off, Elia looked Brienne and Jaime squarely in the eye in turn, a sudden wave of fear flooding through her. They had already done so much for her, and here she was throwing it back in their faces. But she was tired. Tired of smiling and being pleasant. Of pretending to be grateful for whatever crumbs life threw her way. 

Jaime's arm was secure round her shoulders, and Brienne kept Elia's hand firmly gripped in her own. 

_'So I think I understand better than you would expect.'_

They were outsiders, all three of them. Who would understand better than them? Elia closed her eyes and slowly breathed out.

"I must ask one more thing of you. Please, promise me that you will bring my body back to Dorne. My family is buried there, my children were buried there after the war. If I may not return in life, allow me to rest there in death. Please, promise me that,”

Too choked to speak, Jaime gave Elia a tender squeeze to the hand.

“Of course,” Brienne vowed, “Of course we will. Won't we Jaime?”

Jaime nodded, promising also.

What else could they do?

 


	18. Chapter 18

Lyanna placed down her quill and nursed her aching fingers. She looked out the window, eyes widening in surprise at night having fallen. It seemed she had worked well into the night, having been at her desk since midday after attending to Lord Mace Tyrell. With Rhaegar's grudging permission, she had set about re-negotiating the alliance with the Tyrells. She spoke at length of friendship and made endless apologies on the insults they had been dealt. She still ached to scorn the perfumed lords and ladies of the Reach, and tell Lord Mace to cease whining on how his family had been treated.

But instead would listen to his woes; a conciliatory smile painted on her face, and to any others who might put their plights her way. Her reward was a face she was hating less and less each time she looked in the mirror. The clarity she received with Ned's letter grew sharper each day, as she saw her duties before her. She would keep pushing Rhaegar to continue mending things with the Reach, and the Stormlands while she was at it.

The Tarth girl was from there. Perhaps in showing her and Ser Jaime mercy for their treason; actual mercy and not Rhaegar's arrogant disinterest, the first seeds of friendship could once more begin to grow.

Lyanna's thoughts turned to the Lady Brienne, proud and dazzling on her steed. Oh how she reminded Lyanna of herself, brave and wild. But in Lady Brienne's escape to Dorne there was none of the selfishness that had been present in her own. She was merely righting a wrong Lyanna should have done long ago. Instead of being weak and throwing every regret and ounce of self-loathing onto the Dornish Princess.

Even so, Lady Brienne could very well find herself retreading Lyanna's own path. Her innocent actions could so easily set a path for war. With the hold on Dorne and the West weakened, and things still uneasy with the Reach, Lady Brienne could find herself trapped in a snare she had no preparation for.

Lyanna was not going to let that happen. Peace, she was determined, would be maintained.

At least one wild girl should be allowed to run free.

#

The Milk of the Poppy barely touched Elia now. Back on the sea and being tossed about by the waves, she seemed to have reached a new world of pain unknown to any other. Brienne and Jaime were terrified that they would awake to find that Elia had succumbed in her sleep. They took turns rowing with greater force and speed, straining and pushing and pleading with the Gods to get Elia home to Dorne. To give her one final glimpse of the bright Dornish sun and golden sands.

Endless days and nights of rowing finally saw their struggles come to fruition.

From her resting place on Brienne's shoulder, Elia blinked in the sun and squinted at the horizon. She rose her head and stumbled forwards, clutching at the edge of the boat.

“Dorne,” she breathed, tears trickling down her cheek, “It's Dorne,”

Spurred on by the sight of land and Elia's dizzying ecstasy, they reached the shore within hours.

Brienne grabbed the rope of the boat and Jaime disembarked, carrying Elia in his arms. They waded through the sun warmed water, Elia crying in delight when they reached the dry sands.

“Put me down,” she ordered Jaime, “Put me onto the sand,”

Jaime obeyed and carefully helped Elia steady herself. With a cry of bliss, Elia sunk into the sands.

She outstretched her arms as though she would bring this land of her birth into a warm embrace.

“Isn't it beautiful?” she asked, “The sky, the sand and the sun. You will find no other place like it,” she smiled up at Brienne and Jaime and gestured for them to sit beside her.

Jaime helped Brienne set down the boat, stealing a quick private kiss before pulling Brienne over to join Elia on the beach.

She lifted a handful of sand allowed it to run through her fingers, soft and fine as silk. “It is the most wondrous place on the planet,” she decided, “A land of gold and heat. Wait until you see the Water Gardens. They are divine,” she reached out and gripped both Brienne and Jaime's hands in her own, “I cannot wait for you to see them. I am so grateful I can share them with you, with my friends,”

Elia reached forward and calmly began unlacing her shoes, slipping her feet out and burying them in the hot sand.

“Are you sure that is wise Elia?” Jaime asked uncertainly, placing a steadying hand over Elia's “What if the snakes should come?”

Elia removed Jaime's hand and shook her head. “No Jaime, this is my home,” she lay back against the beach, the warm sand caressing her skin, “Nothing can hurt me here,”

**#**

“Still no word from her?” Lord Selwyn asked the Maester hopefully, whose only reply was a reluctant shake of the head.

“None my lord,” he said apologetically, “I have had assistants keeping watch every night for sign of a raven, but we have received nothing,”

Selwyn dismissed the Maester with a wave of his hand, before turning to Galladon with a look of acute dislike.

“Well, I hope you're happy now?” he growled

Galladon rolled his eyes, preparing himself to fight a well worn battle.

“Brienne is perfectly capable of taking care of herself,” he insisted, “She will write when she needs to,”

With a roar of fury, Selwyn threw his cluttered desk raised with a sing hand and stormed up to Galladon. He looked as though he were praying to all the Gods; Old, New, Drowned and Fire, to give him the strength to resist grabbing his son and heir by the scruff of his neck and hauling him over the cliffs and send him plunging into the waters below.

Lady Tarth, however, looked as though she was praying for the strength to do just that. If it were not for Galladon's superior height and strength, the famed Sapphires Isles may very well have ended up renamed the Red.

“Have you and idea what you have done Boy?” Selwyn snared into Galladon's face, spittle flying, “First you help Brienne flee on this madcap idea, with no word on where she is going and when she will return. Then we find out that she has risked her life competing against grown men hardened in battle-”

“And winning,” Galladon pointed out.

“That is neither here nor there,” Lady Tarth snapped, “Brienne could have been killed. And now we hear she has run off with the Kingslayer. The _Kingslayer_ Galladon!”

“Well that should reassure you,” Galladon said reasonably, “He is one of the greatest swordsmen in the realm, he can keep her safe,”

“He is a traitor Galladon!” Selwyn cried, “And now Brienne is too. Count your blessings that King Rhaegar doesn't remember what planet he is on half the time, or else we will be up to our necks in soldiers coming to arrest us all,”

“And have you not seen the storm raging outside the last week?” Lady Tarth demanded, “The Kingslayer may very well be a fine swordsman, but even he cannot keep Brienne from drowning,”

“He won't need to,” Galladon said stubbornly, “Brienne and I have been rowing since we have been walking. Tarths do not drown,”

“Any number of things could have happened to her,” Lord Selwyn paced back and forth, “Robbed, left for dead in a ditch, murdered or raped...”

“My poor sweetling. If Brienne comes to any harm,” Lady Tarth told him, voice still and eyes watering in her impassive face, “I shall never forgive you,”

“It was Brienne's decision,” Galladon protested, “I did not force her to leave. And I dare say she would have merrily gone on without my help,”

“You should have stopped her,” Lord Selwyn thundered, “You should have stopped her and informed me the moment you knew of her foolish plans,”

“You are her brother,” Lady Tarth added, “Have we not told you many a times it is your duty to protect her?”

“And have I not told you many a times that Brienne is capable of protecting herself?” Galladon reiterated, “And what did you expect to happen when you decided to send her packing to a Septry. That she would sit around and accept her fate? Do you even know your own daughter?” he asked with narrowed eyes.

The Evenstar and Lady Tarth looked silently at Galladon with white faces and harrowed eyes.

“Get. Out,” Selwyn ground out through gritted teeth.

Galladon gave them a mocking bow, before turning on his heels and striding from his father's study.

For all his bravado, Galladon feared for Brienne. For all that he had rejoiced at the news of her win, guilt and dread blossomed within his stomach like a putrid smelling flower. The stench clogged up his nostrils and brought stinging tears to his eyes.

All that guilt and fear he rested solely on his parents' shoulders. If only they had accepted Brienne, allowed her to become Master of Arms instead of pushing her at suitor after suitor until all of her self-respect was worn to the bone, none of this need have happened.

Galladon looked out the window to the seas below. He longed to strip down to his small clothes and throw himself into the cool waters. He resolved to go for a row. He liked to sail each day, and had been frothing at the bit to do so. The waters surrounding Tarth had been treacherous these past few weeks, but Galladon supposed them to be safe enough now.

 


	19. Chapter 19

Civilisation was a long, hard trek away. They had to dump whatever supplies they could, bringing along as much drink, food and medicine as possible leaving behind near everything else.

Elia's spirits rose, and in the warmth her cough seemed to have eased tremendously. Even so she flagged behind and Brienne and Jaime suffered greatly with the sun beating down on their backs.

The party had to rest at every opportunity. They travelled morning and evening, when the sun was more forgiving. At midday they took whatever shelter they could to shield themselves from the crushing heat. Brienne's pale skin began to burn and blister horrifically, making her even uglier than before.

“Give thanks that there are no mirrors,” Jaime jested one night, as they lay side by side on their backs staring up at the skies, “You are even more of a grotesque than usual. At least you are spared from your visage,”

Brienne had glowered, but his mockery held little sting as it was followed by Jaime pulling her close and kissing her thankfully un-burnt lips.

Brienne knew not how to react to Jaime's kisses and caresses. She certainly did not push them away, and silently longed for them whenever he was far from her side. During the long, back breaking walks, it was the promise of Jaime's touch come nightfall that kept her going.

And yet every time they touched the scornful words of her old Septa seeped into her mind. That no man could ever desire her and that women who longed for the touches of men were vile, wanton creatures.

Men; Brienne knew, needed release. Soldiers took it where they can. They took it from camp followers old and young. They might close their eyes and service each other, picturing it is a fair maiden wrapping their hand round their cock. According to Galladon some soldiers even turned to the likes of horses, dogs and sheep.

So even a beast like Brienne would not have been out of the question for a man like Ser Jaime.

But still she hoped; foolishly dared to hope, that there was something greater to Jaime's attentions. After all, they were so tender. So courteous. And they never went further than a long embrace.

In the end, she asked him.

She placed her hand on Jaime's mouth and pushed him away, much to his annoyance.

“Why?” she whispered, mindful of the slumbering Elia, “Why do you kiss me?”

Jaime rolled his eyes. “Because that is what men do when they are in love with a woman,” he explained as though it were ridiculous of her to ask, leaning forwards to recapture her lips.

Brienne dodged her head and narrowed her eyes at him. “And you are in love with me?” she asked sceptically.

“I am,” Jaime said simply, tucking a stray lock of her hair back “Now will you let me resume kissing you?”

With a smile, Brienne nodded and allowed him to take her lips. And then; quietly with regards to the sleeping Princess Elia, she allowed him to take a bit more. Clearly there was something in the air in Dorne, something potent enough to drive Brienne to such madness.

Or maybe there was always a madness within her.

Seven knew Brienne was already a disgrace to her family. Why not throw wanton in with the bargain?

#

Elia was propped up against Brienne's shoulder as they stumbled on, a disturbingly light pack of supplies thrown over Brienne's other. They had taken more drink and medicine than food, with the intention of hunting the snakes that lurked in the dunes. Brienne kept her eyes narrowed, peering ahead of her in search of their next meal, valiantly resisting the urge to keep them fixed on Jaime.

Elia smirked as she watched her companion.

“I am surprised to see you both so vigorous today,” she remarked lightly, “After the night you two had,”

Brienne's eyes widened in horror. Elia had taken a dose of Milk of the Poppy to help her through the night, and Brienne had desperately hoped that it had been enough to keep her sleeping.

Elia patted Brienne's arm reassuringly. “I saw and heard nothing,” she said, “I can just tell,”

“How?” Brienne asked hopelessly.

“You have a glow about you,” Elia smiled, “And not just from the sun burning your skin,”

Brienne's 'glow' turned positively blinding as a blush flooded across her face.

“It suits you,” Elia told her gently, “Although you had best get your skin seen to once we reach Sunspear,”

Brienne drew to a sudden halt in her tracks.

“I've seen one,” she hissed, voice deathly quiet.

Elia disentangled herself from Brienne and gestured for Jaime to be quiet. They both waited silently, heart in mouths as Brienne approached the slumbering snake, dagger in hand. She walked slowly, with all the care she could muster in the hopes that the snake not be disturbed from its sleep.

It was not enough.

As Brienne brought the dagger down the snake sprung from its coil and bared its fangs, digging them deep into the palm of Brienne's left hand. In a blind panic, Brienne slashed desperately at the snake with her dagger until it fell dead the ground. She tumbled away, clutching her hand as it blistered and burned and throbbed. Through her tears she could maker out Jaime stumbling towards her.

Her pulled her into a bone crushing grip, kissing her hand and clutching her hand to examine the wound.

“Elia! The snake, is it poisonous?” he asked frantically.

Elia could only nod numbly, before gathering herself. “You will have to cut the hand off,” she said swiftly, “Before the poison spreads,”

Jaime gripped Brienne tighter, clenched his jaw and nodded.

“Start a fire,” he ordered.

Jaime had to keep a fevered Brienne from moving by keeping her locked between his legs. He wrenched her jaw open and Elia poured the remaining Milk of the Poppy down a protesting Brienne's throat.

“You are going to need it a great deal more than I do,” she said simply, before turning to attend to the small fire sizzling away.

On Elia's nod, Jaime sliced the hand off and they quickly cleaned and cauterized the wound, bounding it tight. Brienne thrashed wildly, begging and screaming for them to stop. The sickening stench of roasted flesh clogged their nostrils, causing Elia to turn away and heave. Jaime buried his head in Brienne's hair, rocking her back and forwards. Tears ran from his cheeks and mingled with the sweat on Brienne's forehead. She continued to writhe and sob until pain and exhaustion caused her to still, weeping silently.

Moving Brienne into Elia's arms, Jaime took a savage pleasure in slicing and gutting the snake. He roasted it thoroughly, burning the poison out, and they feasted on its meat, Brienne only able to swallow a few mouthfuls.

As she drifted off, once more in Jaime's arms, Jaime watched her anxiously for any sign the poison had spread. It was only when a few hours had passed and Elia assured him that the poison would have acted by now that the grip on his heart eased.

“She will need a Maester,” Elia told him, “As soon as possible,”

“We will be at Sunspear within a day,” Jaime nodded, “The Maester will be able to see to you both then,”

“You will be able to get there within half that time if I was not slowing you down,” Elia said softly, staring down at Brienne's waxen features, “Brienne would never have been harmed at all if not for me,”

“I know where you're going with this,” Jaime hissed, clutching Brienne closer, “And I'm not leaving you behind,”

“You have already kept your promise,” Elia insisted, “You have brought me home,”

“And I will take you to Sunspear. Do you think Brienne will thank me if I were to leave you for her sake?” Jaime pointed out.

“No,” Elia conceded, “She is disgustingly noble,”

“You both are,” Jaime grunted, “It's enough to make any man feel inadequate. Especially wretches like me,”

Elia leaned over and gave Jaime a light pat on the cheek. “You're not too bad,” she told him, before swallowing the last of the wine in the hopes that it may ease her into a sleep.

Brienne shivered and Jaime pulled her cloak tighter around her. “Soon,” he whispered into her ear, “We will be there soon. We're almost done,”

 


	20. Chapter 20

The final stage of their journey was their easiest. On the outskirts of a passing village a merchant caught sight of them. He instantly recognised his beloved Princess, and the reward that may be brought to him for bringing her home. He allowed the party to travel on the back of his cart, which was a great boon to the wounded Brienne, the exhausted Elia and even to Jamie; who felt as though he could sleep a sennight.

They arrived at Sunspear to cheers and outpourings of frenzied love, Oberyn rushing forward and lifting his dearest sister from the cart and into his arms. Elia had wept into the crook of his neck, clinging onto him for dear life. Now, finally in his arms, she was home.

“Thank you,” he said, over and over as Jaime helped Brienne disembark, “Oh, thank you,”

They were conveyed to luxurious chambers where Maesters and healers awaited them. Jaime insisted on seeing that Elia and Brienne were attended to first before allowing himself to be treated for fatigue and sunstroke.

Her doting brothers by her side, Elia was tended to in her own chambers, whilst Jaime refused to be separated from a near delirious Brienne. Her wounds were cleaned and bandaged once more, the Maester assuring that any infection was treatable, and both of them were given tentative sips of water. Their blistered skin was bathed by maids softly dabbing at them with damp cloths and their burns tended to with soothing salves that had Jaime groaning with near indecent ecstasy.

Jaime then slithered into bed beside Brienne, who was now slumbering quietly, and thankfully joined her in her rest.

#

The Princes of Dorne attended them the next day. It was said they were as different as sun to moon, one as reckless and red hot as the blistering sun, the other slow and sly as a hidden viper. And yet both thanked Jaime with warmth and asked after Brienne's health with genuine concern.

“She will recover,” Jaime said blithely, looking over from the table to where Brienne still slept, “Although the Maester has informed me that her hand will not in fact grow back,”

Prince Oberyn nodded seriously, a twinkle of mirth in his dark eyes. “They rarely do,” he agreed solemnly. He stared at Jaime, before giving a light chuckle.

Jaime raised an eyebrow. “Is something the matter?” Perhaps it was his skin. He had not been completely spared of the burns that had plagued Brienne, and as yet had been afraid to look in the mirror.

Still smiling, Prince Oberyn shook his head. “It just amuses me,” he said, “That you are known as 'Kingslayer', a man without honour. And yet your oh so honourable brothers at arms stood by as the Mad King committed atrocity after atrocity, letting him torture innocents and helping Rhaegar humiliate my sister. Whilst you, Oathbreaker, has protected the innocent and returned my sister to her home. You deserve to be honoured above all,”

“I cannot have done it without the Lady Brienne,” Jaime insisted with something sounding suspiciously like modesty.

“Poor lady,” Prince Doran sighed.

Jaime shrugged. “She is strong, and fights with her right hand. You will find very little is capable of holding her back,” he said with pride.

“It is not the loss of her hand that grieves me,” Lord Doran intoned, “But that of her brother. We have received word that Lord Galladon died some weeks past. Drowned in the storm. It was the thought the storm had passed and it would be safe to sail, but the winds picked up and many drowned,”

In his sun filled chambers Jaime's blood flooded with ice. “She worshipped her brother,” he cursed, “Seven Hells! How do I tell her?”

“May I suggest leaving it some time?” Lord Doran, “Allow her to recuperate first,”

Jaime nodded numbly, rising from his seat to sit by Brienne's bedside and take her remaining hand in his.

Prince Oberyn rose and approached the pair.

“She lost her hand to feed my sister,” he declared, “I shall have a sword made for her, the finest sword I can. With a gold handle of vipers twisting round a clenched fist, light enough to be wielded using a single hand,”

“It sounds like a very fine sword,” Jaime said dully, “Can you bring her brother back as well?”

Oberyn sighed and shook his head. “Only as well as I can regrow her hand,”

#

“Ser Jaime sends you his regards,” Oberyn informed Elia, who was propped up upon silken cushions, Doran on the other side of her bed “And regrets he cannot as yet attend to you,”

“I understand he does not wish to leave Lady Brienne,” Elia nodded graciously, “And I am most capable of attending them both myself,”

“A few more days in bed, sweet sister,” Oberyn insisted, “And then you may be carried to Lady Brienne's chambers,” he rose his hands defensively at the look on Elia's face, “That is what the Maester has said,”

“You have spoken to the Maester?” Elia asked.

A smile tugged at Oberyn's lips, remembering the conversation with pleasure.

“I have,” he nodded, kissing Elia a passionate kiss on the back of her hand.

Elia settled back against her cushions and sighed. “I fear for the Lady Brienne when she hears the news of her brother,” she looked at Doran with a gimlet eye, “As soon as she is well enough to hear it I will be taken to her,”

Doran nodded dutifully. “As you wish,” he granted.

“I suppose she will have to return to Tarth,” Elia mused, “She is the heir now,”

“I will have guards accompany her,” Oberyn offered, “Fifty thousand to be precise, and have them rip down King's Landing around Rhaegar's and his Northern whore's ears!”

“No!” Elia snapped, before Doran could cut in, “I will not have it. I will not have anymore bloodshed,”

“Sister,” Oberyn pleaded, “He has dishonoured you. Humiliated you and left your children to die. And with Ser Jaime here, the Lannisters are sure to join us. The entire country will rise up against the Dragon Bastard! And yet you would show him mercy?”

“I would keep this country from being torn apart once more,” Elia hissed, “And I would keep the people of this land from being sent to die from their home,”

“It would be an honour to die for your glory,” Oberyn said fervently.

“And where shall honour be found when children starve after their fields are scorched and their fathers do not return?” Elia hissed, “And I do not doubt that there will be much glory when innocent women are dragged from their homes and raped,” she looked each brother in the eye in turn, “I will have no other woman endure what I have endured. No mother should see her babes slaughtered before her eyes, and I will not have it so on my account,” venom flooded her voice, “Or do you consider my sufferings so trivial?”

Oberyn reluctantly nodded. A devoted brother, only Elia's words could have swayed him so quickly.

“Very well sister,” he ground out, kissing her tenderly on the forehead, “As long as you are home, that is what matters,”

Doran silently watched Elia, his face inscrutable. “If this is what you wish,” he conceded at last, his eyes clearing so Elia saw he was honest, “But you truly do not wish for revenge? To have your pride restored?”

“I wish to believe that there is more to this world than a constant cycle of hate and vengeance,” Elia explained, closing her eyes and resting against the cushions, “And I know better than anyone that blood should not be shed lightly. I have danced with the Stranger since I was a babe in arms. Life is to precious to be wasted satisfying old insults,”

 


	21. Chapter 21

Elia sat rock still by the tomb of her children, running her hand over the carved stone. Aegon and Rhaenys lay together, their effigies dressed in nightgowns and curled around each other like kittens. Elia closed her eyes and tried to feel warmth radiating from the effigy. Yet no matter how hard she tried the hard stone would not yield to smooth skin, her children's' cheeks as soft as a peach.

But she could still see them. Still hear them. Aegon's gurgles and cries that could only be soothed away by Mama. Rhaenys's laughter as she scampered down the corridor after Balerion, eyes bright and sparkling and braids streaming behind her. Rhaenys still a little girl, and Aegon just a scrap of humanity, his life barely started.

Elia shivered, pulling her thin shawl tighter around her shoulders.

How is it that children so bright and happy could end their lives in such tears and pain?

Oberyn had not wanted her to come down here, not alone. But Elia needed to see them by herself. After all those years of wearing a mask, she was not yet ready to mourn in the open.

If Ser Jaime and Lady Brienne would stood by her through her tears and rages, Oberyn was certain to understand and comfort her in her grief. But putting on a brave face and staying amiable when it felt like her heart was breaking was a habit too hard to break.

But she would learn, Elia told herself. After all, she had time now.

#

Her rooms at Sunspear were beautiful. Light and filled with flowers and ornate decoration. The balcony looked over a the gardens, fluttering lace curtain blocking the worst of the sun from Brienne's eyes.

The servants hovering around her could not be more attentive. Jaime had been considerate to an almost disturbing extent and Brienne's strength grew greater by the day. Stuck in her chambers, with Jaime and the healers fretting around, she grew restless and stifled. What's more, everyone seemed to tiptoeing around her, giving her small, sad smiles that stirred dread in the pit of her stomach.

Initially, she thought it was due to the loss of her hand. But Prince Oberyn had boasted to her of length of the sword he was having made, and Jaime had drummed it into her that losing her left hand was far from a travesty to her sword play. It was probably due to the Milk of the Poppy that coursed through her blood and fogged her mind, but the loss of her hand was yet to sink in.

She began desperately asking after Princess Elia, terrified that her friend had been failing. Everyone assured her that Elia was growing stronger, but still it seemed they were withholding something from her.

It was only when a frail but bright eyed Princess Elia visited her chambers that Brienne discovered the truth. Jaime had left, ostensibly to train in the yard, and Brienne was resentful she could not join him.

Elia stood in the doorway, a gauzy red shawl fluttering over her shoulders and her dark hair unbound and brushed into a silky curtain.

“Princess Elia,” Brienne said from her seat by the window, “How are you feeling?”

“Better,” Elia smiled, approaching Brienne and seating herself beside her. “So much better. The Maester says my recovery is astounding,”

“Just _how_ astounding?” Brienne questioned hopefully.

Elia took Brienne's hand in her own, squeezing it in pleasure. “He cannot be sure, but I have beaten the odds before. And the odds I am currently facing are better than they have been in a long time,”

Brienne beamed in delight, only for the look in Elia's eyes to quench her happiness. The joy of the news the Princess brought with her opposed the sadness within those dark orbs. It was the same look of pity that had been haunting Brienne ever since she awoke.

“What is it?” Brienne asked through narrowed eyes, “Everyone has been keeping something from me, tell me the truth,”

Elia looked way and sighed.

“They did not want me to tell you, not until you were stronger,” Elia said, confirming Brienne's fears. A thousand different concerns rose like a tidle-wave. Jaime had lied and used her, planning to abandon her first chance he had. Her father had been executed and Tarth invaded. War had broken out in the Seven Kingdoms...

“It is your brother, Galladon,” Elia said gently.

Brienne blinked. Galladon? What could have happened to Galladon? She dimly remembered his betrothed, Lady Elinor. One of the Tyrell hostages. Perhaps something had happened to her?

“He went out rowing after the storm,” Elia explained, “He thought the waters were safe, but they were more dangerous than they first appeared,”

“He is injured?” Brienne whispered.

Elia shook her head sadly. Tears stung in Brienne's eyes, burning and itching as the truth raged and settled in her head. Galladon, drowned. Not Galladon. Not her Gal.

“Oh Brienne,” Elia said, bringing Brienne into a tender embrace, “I am so sorry. So very, very sorry,”

Brienne gasped and broke away, pressing her forehead against the glass and heaved in dry, broken sobs. Not drowned. They were Tarths. Tarths didn't drown. Brienne and her brother had grown by the sea, raised by the waves and tide. It had been their friend. And now Galladon had been stolen from her and dragged down into its treachorous depths.

Elia stood and found a page, ordering him to summon Ser Jaime to Lady Brienne's chambers. Ser Jaime arrived with great haste, gathering Brienne into his arms. Elia sat beside them, running her arm along Brienne's back.

“I'm sorry,” Brienne mumbled, breaking away from Jaime, “You don't have to stay here,”

“I think I do,” Jaime disagreed, thumbing away tears from Brienne's bloodshot eyes, “I'm staying right here beside you.

“I will have to return to Tarth,” Brienne murmured, “Mother and Father will need me. I cannot be away from them for too long,”

“Doran has written to inform them you are safe,” Elia assured her, “And I have written my thanks to them also, as well as my condolences,”

“Thank you,” Brienne said numbly, the words empty and perfunctory on her tongue, “That was kind of you,”

“You should be well enough to travel soon,” Jaime told her, “We will set sail then. Prince Doran has promised an escort to the port, and we shall travel on a merchant's ship to avoid attention,”

“Is it safe?” Brienne asked suddenly, “For you to go so close to King's Landing once more? What if Rhaegar comes after you?”

She had lost Galladon, now an empty husk of a bloated corpse. She could not lose Jaime as well. It would break her.

“Oberyn has offered to send you with an army,” Elia said dryly, “But I managed to talk him out of it. Even so, we have written to let him know you are both under our protection and if there is any movement against the both of you we cannot guarantee our continued peace,” she smiled up at Jaime, “Lannisters are not the only ones who pay their debts,”

Brienne stared at Jaime. “You do not wish to return to Casterly Rock, to see your brother?”

Jaime nodded. “I do,” he agreed, “And my father as well, I suppose. But it seems I am disgustingly noble after all,”

 


	22. Chapter 22

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We have reached the penultimate chapter! Thank you to everyone who has followed the story so far and the respone has been fantastic.

“Well then,” Jaime declared as he and Brienne boarded the small merchant's ship bound for the Stormlands, “Onwards to the Isles of the Sufficiently Blue in Colour Waters,” he watched Brienne struggle with a sack of luggage and smirked, “Need a hand?”

Brienne shot Jaime a look as venomous as the snake that had cost her the said appendage and buried the urge to dig the hook that adorned her left stump into his glittering green eyes. Jaime's tender and conciliatory manner in the wake of Galladon's death had brought Brienne little comfort and much irritation. As such he had swiftly reverted to his usual sardonic and insulting self. Brienne had long since grown accustomed to Jaime's caustic, mocking tongue. And she had forgiven him for it.

That he had resorted to making puns about her hand was a completely different matter. And Brienne was both dismayed and disgusted her had sunk so far.

Brienne gripped her blade as a warning. It truly was a thing of beauty, the handle of gold and cruel steel so bright and sparkling that Brienne was as likely to blind her opponent as gut them. Prince Oberyn had presented it to her on their departure, a bright eyed and radiant Princess Elia beside him.

They set sail with the wind behind them and the sun clear in the sky. The captain was confident of them making good time, for which Brienne was grateful. For all that she dreaded seeing her parents' once more, being faced with their grief and her own betrayal (as well as an Evenfall without Galladon's laughter to fill the hallways) she was determined not to fail them once more. She would return to them and fulfil her duty.

So anxious was she to return home that she insisted on continuing the journey by fishing boat when the ship first docked at Estermont. Jaime had grumbled and complained, but made no real objections. As far as Brienne was concerned, she had already wasted far too much time recovering from her 'trifling' injury.

As such, the last leg of their journey was spent rowing once more. Brienne allowed herself to relish the rhythmic bobbing up and down of the boat, the cool breeze that kissed Brienne's cheeks. A welcome relief from the blistering heat of Dorne. Jaime was singing again, but whether out regard for Brienne of for a fear of drowning, he sang in a low, melodic voice. It was almost pleasant.

These final few days were her last few of freedom, before the reality of the loss of Galladon and her role as heir to Tarth would have her chained and manacled. These lazy days with Jaime on the sea.

Brienne tilted her head back, the wind running gently through her snarled yellow locks.

“A comet,” she murmured, staring at the sky.

Jaime followed Brienne's gaze, eyes widening. “A red comet,” he added.

“The people of Tarth believe it to be an omen for pirates,” Brienne said. No doubt the people on her island would already be arming themselves and lighting candles at the Sept.

Jaime shrugged dismissively. “Of course they do. They say it signals pirates. Others say it means bloodshed. Then there are those who take it to mean battles and apparently the Wildlings say a blood comet means dragons,”

“I wonder which one King Rhaegar is in favour of,” Brienne said lightly, causing Jaime to grin.

“It's a vast, bloody world we live in,” Jaime mused, “Chances are, they are all right,”

#

The comet faded from the sky to be replaced with a sliver of moonlight. Even so the memory of the comet lingered in Brienne's mind, like a bloody smear of blood. It was tattooed upon her eyelids, flashing before her every time she blinked. She told herself it was foolishness, a result of the insatiable melancholy that has settled upon her since Gal's death. Clearly the superstitions of her homeland had her in a firmer grasp than she had initially believed. Certainly far more than Jaime, who was humming nonchalantly once more.

The night grew darker, stars and moon disappearing behind a blanket of clouds. Brienne could barely see Jaime before her, let alone the ships sailing on the horizon. It was only when the flame of three dozen lit arrows illuminated the three-headed on the black sails did Brienne and Jaime catch sight of the ships looming towards them.

The Targeryen galley were under siege from a ship with sigiless sails. The clash of steel against steel was faintly carried by the wind over the din of the screams and battle-cries of men. Brienne and Jaime watched entranced as the sea took flame. Cannons thundered in their ears, causing Jaime to swear.

“Pirates,” Brienne muttered, breaking from her reverie.

“It seems your people are not as primitive as I first thought,” Jaime said numbly.

A life-boat was rapidly being lowered down the side of the ship, the men calling out for a loan figure on the side of the ship to jump.

“They're fleeing,” Jaime said.

“Not all of them,” Brienne corrected, narrowing her eyes. Many brave men remained behind to fight, but it was only the single figure who caught the attention of those escaping.

“The Prince,” Brienne deduced, “He will not run,”

“He is refusing to leave his men, Prince Jon would not run and leave others to fight,”

Brienne clenched her jaws, eyes growing hard. “We have to help them,”

“Help them?” Jaime scoffed, “How?”

“We could help more escape,” Brienne retorted.

“Or else be roasted like chickens,” Jaime cocked his head, “Now what do you consider to be more likely?”

“Stop japing and start rowing!” Brienne snapped.

“I'm sorry, are you not my squire?” Jaime pointed out, “Am I not the one meant to be giving orders?”

Brienne glowered. “Row. _Now!”_ she hissed.

Jaime rowed.

In the chaos their small boat passed by unnoticed. Stragglers leapt overboard and swam desperately to the lifeboat, now retreating at their Prince's behest. The pirates seemed to pay them little mind, focussing only on the prince who now seemed to be retreating below deck. As Brienne and Jaime grew closer they could just make out the re-emerging Prince lugging along a heavy sack.

“Dragon eggs,” Brienne whispered, the blood red comet clear in her mind's eye. Clearly the Wildlings were none too primitive either.

The pirates swarmed around Prince Jon, backing him towards the hull of the ship. Jaime swiftly rowed the boat to follow. The Prince's remaining guards circled round him, keeping the pirates at bay. Flaming arrows rained down upon them, mowing down their own comrades in their determination to pierce the Prince at all costs. Pirates and guards were sent plummeting into the depths of the sea. Bandits armed with spears skewered the remaining guards like fishes.

Prince Jon watched in horror, utterly defenceless.

“Your Grace!” Brienne called up to him, “Throw down the eggs!”

Jaime's voice joined her own as they Brienne cried and screamed herself hoarse. Hidden in the shadows of the ship, the arrows now aiming for them missed and landing in the sea around them.

Prince Jon looked wildly around, spying the pair in the boat below. He grabbed a rope in one hand; eggs in the other, as his last three guards frantically sought to fight off the the last surviving pirates. Tying the rope round the sack of eggs, Prince Jon frantically lowered them down into the boat.

A blood curdling scream was ripped from the throat of a guard as he was sliced in half at the waist. Blood and intestines flew into the eyes of his brother at arms, blinding him and leaving him vulnerable to a spear in the skull. Prince Jon clenched his jaw and continued lowering the eggs down, a flying spear burying itself in his back.

Prince Jon loosened his grip on the eggs, causing them to drop into the sea with a violent ripple. Barely thinking, Brienne dived into the bottomless depths. The cold waters attacked her flesh like the thrusts of a thousand daggers, yet Brienne swam down and down. Her lungs burned and screamed in protests, but still she struggled to go deeper. Her hand grasping blindly, water skimming through her fingers until at last they clutched round a frayed rope.

Brienne kicked herself upwards, fighting against the pull and drag of the heavy eggs. Jaime's hands thrust into the water and hauled her up by the scruff of her neck, the eggs along with her.

Above them, a wounded Prince Jon and his final guard fought on, their determination to go down with steel in their hands overruling the pure futility.

“Keep the boat steady,” Brienne ordered Jaime.

Without thinking, Brienne grabbed her sword and threw herself into the sea once more. She swam to the ship and buried her blade and hook into the wood. Skin numb to the cold and burning, she scaled up the side of the ship. Trying not to think of Jaime waiting below like a sitting duck, she forced herself over on board, joining the Prince and his guard on deck. She stabbed the stomach of a grizzled nose-less pirate, before pulling her arm back and slashing at the neck of a pirate approaching her from the behind. She hooked Prince Jon's arm round and neck and dragged him backwards.

“Jump!” she barked at the guard, offloading the Prince into his arms. With a nod, the guard threw himself over the edge of the boat. A battleaxe came swinging towards her, barely ducking in time Brienne buried her sword into her assailant's bald skull. Wrenching it backwards, Brienne shot backwards and leapt.

The pirates dove in after them, Jaime and the guard fighting them off. One attacker gripped fiercely to the sides of the boat, only for Prince Jon to sever his hands off and send him drifting down into the belly of the sea. Brienne tried to scramble overboard, gasping at Jaime to row. Suddenly a great weight tried dragging her down, a pirate was clutching at her legs in a vice like hold.

Hands shot out and wrenched her onboard, doing battle with the pirate. His wet hands slid down and loosened its grasp. As her body was heaved onto the boat, the pirate clawed his way on after her, one hand wrapped round her ankle. Brienne twisted round and sliced his head off in one blow. His body floated off, joining his slaughtered comrades.

Shivering , near blinded by salt water and throat burning, Brienne kicked the severed head from the retreating boat. Brienne watched as the head bobbed steadily in the waves. With its bulging eyes, the head seemed to look on with shock at seeing its body floating alongside it.

 


	23. Chapter 23

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The final chapter! Thank you so much for following this story. This is the first time I've written a multi-chapter canon au fic, and the first time I have written characters like Lyanna, Elia and Rhaegar, so hearing back from everyone has been really encouraging.

It had been her first proper bath in a week. The warm, soapy water a blessed relief after the harsh salt sea. Brienne eased slowly into the tub, relishing the feel of hot water against her bruised, aching muscles.

On returning to King's Landing, she and Jaime had been swiftly taken into separate custody. The hassle of going after them on Tarth may have proved a deterrent to King Rhaegar taking action against their treason, but they had blithely wondered into the city amongst a retinue of Targaryen soldiers.

Brienne reassured herself that their rescue of Prince Jon and the dragon egg's; alongside Oberyn Martell's threat and their own value as hostages, would keep their heads firmly attached to their necks. The thought was enough for Brienne to push her fears for Jaime down into the pit of her stomach, and sink blissfully into a real bed.

Silent, dutiful handmaids awoke her the next morning with bathwater and a clean tunic. After stubbornly questioning them over and over, she was informed that King Rhaegar had summoned her presence to the throne room.

Brienne shied from their attempts to help her bathe and jerked away each time one approached the tub. She thoroughly soaped her ratty locks, trying to ease her fingers through the stubborn knots and snarls. She struggled not to blush when she stepped from the bath; red and flushed from the heat, and the maids glimpsed at her thick legs and broad shoulders with astonished pity.

Fumbling with her single hand, she tugged on her clean clothes. She suddenly remembered a twelve year old Galladon laughing after catching her trying to scramble into his clothes, only to help her dress. Tears swelled in her eyes and the laces slipped through her fingers. Even as she failed time after time to do the laces, she persistently refused the help of the handmaids until one snatched the laces from her hand in frustration and tied them for her. Another took a comb to her hair and tore out her nest of tangles; along with half her scalp, taking little care to spare her pain.

“The King should not be kept waiting,” she snapped at Brienne impatiently, “The guards are without, there to take you to him,”

“What of Ser Jaime?” Brienne demanded as she was bustled out of the door, “Where is he?”

Her questions went unanswered and Brienne was walked to the throne room with dread blossoming in her stomach. She wished she had her sword, but it had been taken from her. Her sword, and her shield. At first chance, she would have to get them back. The shield especially.

The doors were thrust open and all heads turned into her direction as she stumbled in. Blushing a bright red, Brienne kept her head ducked as she was led towards the King and knelt before the throne. Comforting fingers reached out and brushed against her hand, and Brienne's eyes twitched aside to see Jaime kneeling beside her.

“Ser Jaime,” King Rhaegar announced, his melancholy voice echoing throughout the silent chamber, “Lady Brienne,”

Brienne looked up to see King Rhaegar looking down on her, unsmiling. Beside him sat Queen Lyanna, looking more comely than Brienne had ever seen in her a gown of grey silk and white lace. Her hair was loose, with braids pulling it back from her face in a way Brienne remembered being referred to as a Northern style. She smiled graciously, her body angled away from her husband but shoulders straight and head erect. It took a moment to recognise her, so different was she from the scowling lady she had seen before, with the haggard look of an old woman and the pout of a child.

Prince Jon stood with his parents, face cut and propped up with a walking stick. From the corner of her eyes Brienne spied a familiar sea of green of gold, proudly standing near the front in a place of honour. It seemed the Tyrell roses had blossomed once more.

“Before me,” King Rhaegar said, “Kneels two who have both committed treason. Who have both flaunted the laws of this kingdom and through valuing their personal desires over loyalty to their country and placed its safety in jeopardy,”

“Fucking hypocrite,” Jaime whispered softly, eyes hard with dislike. Brienne curled her fingers round his hand, giving it a tight squeeze.

“And yet, had they not,” Rhaegar continued, “My son would be laying dead at the bottom of the sea, along with all hopes for the future of Westeros,” he nodded towards the dragon eggs, burning above a brazier beside the Iron Throne, “Brought to this Kingdom under a red comet, amid salt and smoke,” he muttered, almost to himself, “These three dragons shall bear our kingdom through the long night,”

All those in the throne room waited for the King to make his verdict. A silence fell upon them, so thick Valyrian steel would have been dented trying to cut through.

“Ser Jaime, in saving my son you have proved yourself to be a man of valour, and one of loyalty to my family. In light of your services, all your crimes against the throne are forgiven,” Rhaegar nodded regally, “You may rise a free man,”

Jaime rose unsteadily to his feet, Rhaegar's words echoing round his head. He had no need for Rhaegar Targaryen to confirm his valour, and he was no more loyal to the Targaryens than he ever was. But the word 'free' sang as high and clear as the song of a lark. He dumbly heard cheers and applause break out, the likes of which he had not heard since before he was seventeen.

“Lady Brienne,” King Rhaegar turned to her, “You retrieved the eggs from the sea and joined the fray to keep my son safe. You truly are an admirable woman. I give you my most sincere thanks. You may rise,”

“No,” Queen Lyanna scoffed, “You may stay kneeling,” she turned to Rhaegar and hissed, “ _Your thanks!_ Is that all? Do you value our son's life so little?”

Rhaegar blinked at her interruption. “What would you have me do?”

“She kneels before you, Your Grace, a woman of great courage and chivalry. What else can you do but knight her?” Lyanna raised an eyebrow, “Is that not how things are done here in the South?”

Brienne thanked the Old Gods and the New that she was kneeling, or else she would have shamed herself and fallen arse over head before the royal court.

“Your Grace,” a councillor murmured tentatively, “Women do not receive knighthoods,”

Lyanna narrowed her eyes at the impudent man. “They do when they save the Crown Prince's life,” she shot back.

The councillor promptly bowed and stepped back, lest he be the latest to be booted from the Small Council by Queen Lyanna on King Rhaegar's behalf.

“My lord father,” Prince Jon rested his hand on the hilt of his sword, “It is my life the Lady Brienne has saved, and my kingdom's. I would be honoured to knight her,”

With a nod from the King and a glowing smile from the Queen, Prince Jon drew his sword and approached Brienne. Jaime shook his head, stepping forward.

“My King, my Queen,” he nodded to each in turn, “Prince Jon. I took this lady for my squire. It is only right that I should knight her,”

Prince Jon obligingly extended his sword for Jaime to take, before stepping back humbly.

Doing away with the usual trappings, Ser Jaime lightly placed the blade upon each shoulder in turn.

“Lady Brienne of House Tarth, do you swear before the eyes of gods and men to defend those who cannot defend themselves, to protect all women and children, to obey your captains, your liege lord, and your king, to fight bravely when needed and do such other tasks as are laid upon you, however hard or humble or dangerous they may be?”

“I will,” Brienne murmured, voice stolen by shock.

Jaime withdrew his sword and helped Brienne to rise. His hand clutched her elbow and Brienne dimly realised she was wobbling. There was silence, then a cheer swept through the court. Brienne turned to Jaime, wide blue eyes wordlessly asking if this was real. He beamed and nodded, tugging her to his chest into a swift embrace. He then turned her round to face the crowd.

There; beneath a banner of suns and moons, stood her family. Her mother and father were smiling through tears, their men at arms applauding and stamping her feet. And Gal was smiling at her, form somewhere. That Brienne knew.

A cheer took up, her name. Not a fake name of a man unknown, but her own. Brienne. They were chanting her name over and over.

Laughing in giddiness, Brienne turned back to Jaime and rested her forehead against his. Laughing and laughing, she shook her head in disbelief. Just to think, if she had married as she ought, if she had done her duty as many saw it, she would not be standing there. Marriage to a petty lord or landed knight would have brought her nought but scorn, pity at the best. But instead she fled her home, disobeyed her parents and betrayed her King. She aided traitors and fought in a battle on the sea.

Brienne could never do what was wanted of her, but she had done what she was needed to do.

 


End file.
